When I decided to write the poem,
Many poems came to mind,
So I scratched, drank
Coffee, watched the river rocks settle into place.

I listened to my dog sleep through her basic dreams.
I placed one hand on the bible
Of my daughter's kicking
Inside my wife's belly.

Music and computers and expensive gasoline.
Many poems came to mind
When I decided to write the poem.
Each one seemed the same,
Or similar
Enough to warrant restraint.

Then the gunshot caromed
Off the garage, into the brick,
Triggering the motion light and police,
And every poem ran away from me.
I decided to write this instead.

This is the poem I decided to write
For lack of a better reason to
Not believe that one poem accomplishes
Any more than another,
Any less than the pile of leaves
Collecting in the gutter.

A building is a garden and an alley. And a tree.
But not a car. Yes, a baby. Not a dog.
A poem?
Sure.


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