Sometimes I dream a poem.

It rubs its eyes and wakes up

with the perfect features

of a newborn child.

I rock it in my arms

and think of a good name.

More often,

I wrestle with the words

like Jacob with his angel,

trying to pin them in place

before the vision fades.

I sound out the lines

a hundred times,

fishing for the melody

which swims elusively

beneath the meaning.

To the joggers in the park,

I am simply

a crazy fool in a cowboy hat

who talks to the dog

as it strains at the leash,

who mumbles to the ducks

as they bob their pretty heads

and preen their feathers.

(Originally published in Eunoia)