The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Christina Daub

THE POET TOO LONG AT HER DESK
 

Another crisp and cloudless day,
A small boat drifts to sea.
I have forgotten how to play.
 
I bend to tasks in my own way,
a gnarled and knot-filled tree.
I don’t look out or look away,
 
I grind lead. I etch worlds gray.
Sometimes I want to flee.
My pencil stubs could fill a tray,
 
from desk to bed to desk each day.
Some people think free verse is free,
not stalked by rhyme, cliché,
 
not sought by form, like A B A,
or others' words, Dante's, e.e.'s.
Is there something new to say?
 
I start a list of foreign nouns: Roué . . .
A small boat drifts to sea.
Another crisp and cloudless day,
and I am here. I have forgotten how to play.