Inner poem

I am listening to my inner poem today,
The one that is deep in the core of my
aging body where I keep the cleansers
and the cleaners and the emotional
vacuum cleaner that I use to suck
the cobwebs off the ceiling and to blow
the ants from their nests near the potato bin.

Sometime before noon I find myself
calling out to the inner poem
for some inspiration. Sing to me you
Old Inner Poem. Whisper a sonnet
in my ear. Come close and explain
the nuances of your latest villanelle.
Don’t become caught up with the
details and the meanderings of the
old poets – you are on your own
now – you need none of them.
Inspiration comes from the clouds
and the damned moon – REALLY
can anyone bear another poem about the moon??
Can we beat another one out of the
Clouds? Give me a Picasso or a
Rembrandt today – with a hint of
Jackson Pollack. That’s the kind of
poem I need from you.

Don’t make me
come down there and look for you
Old Fool Inner Poem:
If I must do that, you’ll be sorry
for the experience. But there is
silence down there and soon I know
Inner Poem will need to be prodded
and maybe coaxed with a good glass
of port wine.