I wake to another morning
not to write a new poem,
but to start the same poem again.
I push my pen across the paper,
because it’s the object the gods put in my hand.
Each day the words find their places
in an endless game of musical chairs
and I’m supposed to call the music.
It’s hopeless, I know, but I persist,
prodding letters into place,
pulling punctuation in to order
the chaos of syllables struggling
against the rigors of reason.
Again and again I work against hope
only to start anew the next day
with the same cast of characters
still not knowing what they want to say.