There are people devoted to a cause,
a talent, who abandon their homes, families,
go sleepless for weeks perfecting a move,
filling a canvas, and I wonder,
what I’ve ever done for love?
I drew in high school, but it was too easy.
I could see it and copy it, line for line,
and there it was.
I sang in the chorus, too shy for solos.
Ditto for theater, my single performance
the role of a nameless villager
in Fiddler on the Roof,
on stage without glasses to
manage my fright.
I was never an athlete or dancer,
and writing, writing was breathing,
just notes stuffed in bottles
thrown out into the world.
There are no Help Wanteds for poets.
The only thing I can think of,
my desire, my passion, was to get out.
I wanted to make my own home,
come and go as I pleased,
create my own space, not an eggshell in sight.
It's the only thing I've accomplished,
created here among books written by others,
other people’s paintings, movies, CDs.
I have crocheted the odd baby blanket when necessary,
cook avant garde meals depending on my food zone,
but the only thing I've actually completed
was escape into my own
solar system of existence.
And having gotten out, all I remember
is being in, and I can't get that out.
I can't get away from that.