5 pm, Sunday, Driving Against The Sun

I can't be much of a poet
if i can't write much of a poem.

Let's face it

As it is, I'm more of a scribbler
than composer

As it is, I'm lucky to get by
or complete a thought
with this mind of mine

Feelings come to me in
incomplete sentences
and conclusions and epiphanies
bubble and burst and erupt
from the end of my tongue
before periods can be placed
or phrases diagrammed

I twist the language
like tendrils of hair
around a lover's finger
and I love that you
sit back and watch
as I toss paint onto canvas
as I stomp on the puddles
you smile, wait, and see
what my feet and hands
can do

with you I melt
i lean into you and I can sway
you keep me steady
my arhythmic heart
taps morse code
as we fall into each other
naked, warm, discussing
serious, important matters
like the grape jelly conspiracy
and how to protect your neck
in case of cougar attack

words
there are words i can only whisper
i can only say in my mind
i can only say with my touch
because i am not yet brave
i am not yet whole
to scream them from rooftops
due to fear of a fall

I am a poet at heart
I am not of craft, of study, of reading
I do not claim talent or pride myself
in any charm, in any fame or greatness
and what matters to me
is not names on spines
or dollars in pockets
but your hand reaching for mine
across the console of your car