LET THE GAME BEGIN
My morning starts: communing with the Muse
(After the dogs are tended to and fed)
By sitting, sipping mocha, seeking clues
Of what, that day, seems needing to be said.
The engine of my verse is always rhyme
That drives each line along to where it tends
Then forces it to stop right on the dime
And turn toward where that pattern neatly ends.
It’s not that I have something set to say,
A thesis or idea to expound;
It’s rather that I set a game in play
Then find out when I finish where I’m bound.
A pattern that is bodiless, abstract
Becomes a living, breathing artifact.