So WHY do you write she asks – as if there was
an answer. It’s a mystery he sighed, an enigma
wrapped in an impasse impossible to reconcile;
I don’t know why, I just know if I didn’t I’d be
too lost and too sad to find the essential me.
Then you write to be found she says, satisfied –
a condition of curiosity he knows will change,
so it makes sense the readership finds you too.
But what if they don’t? Will you still be lost?
I suppose I would, he says – but I’d still write.
You write because you are obsessed she then
suggests, exorcising demons from a sad psyche.
That impressed! Perhaps, he says – liking the
innuendo, but I’m not sure it fits exactly. Like I
said, I really write like I write just to be me.
Well, do you love me then, she asks, her eyes
roving his face, kissable lips a-pout. Let me guess
he says, this is about you and the next poem I
write – good or bad, read or not, because of
what you know I’d surely want to say to you.
© 15 February 2008, I. D. Carswell