I went looking for poetry, this morning.

I peered in cribs, where children lie,
like unpainted canvases on shelves
And tried to trace the lines of future
stories, existing in potentia,
so I could shape and tell them;

but I wasn’t sure enough to daub
futures on the faces that looked at me.
They had their own, unfocused intentions.

I poked into the corners of relationships
where resentment grows layers of dust
but is never quite forgotten,
and waits to be brushed off and used;
a blunt instrument in some upcoming assault.

But I wasn’t brave enough to fossick deep
enough into the detritus and
discarded arguments to find my words.

I gazed at graveyards, and turned away
from the stiff arrangements of lilies and roses
from the grass or green stone chips blanketing mortality
from those that contemplate there
with grief-washed eyes or dull resignation;

I wasn’t tired or sad enough
to hunt for haunting among the memorials
and quiet pathways.

I went looking for poetry and found
only a pen and a page.
I made a couple of rough sketches
that are enough for now;
there will be time
for shading when certainty comes.