SIGNS

I sat down to write a poem that was gnawing away, a poem that gets to a feeling when all seems right. I tried to communicate a time when the haphazard way brings you right where you are supposed to be. I tried, but it turned out bleak.

Has this ever happened to you, fellow poets? Have you set your sights on writing a poem with a certain outcome, but the poem turns itself on its head and you go along for the ride? Is this the poem writing itself, or failing?

I wonder.

The Sign

j.b. rowell

When the search stops
for a straight way
with no cracks or weeds
to trip on, you find
yourself in bed
in the afternoon.

You didn't mean to,
but here you are,
preferring to stare down
the sunset until blurred
between blacks slats.

The pot will boil,
and in the meantime,
you may notice
how steam thickens
like the sky to your
unblinking eyes.

The sign waited for
arrives. A convergence
of letting go, barring in,
and having no
other choice.

You are the final piece.
This settles until the sun
is gone and the striped
window turns black.