Scuttling in the rafters,
I hear it, but don’t move
hoping to catch it by surprise.
I hold the empty page
of my worn notebook
- tattered with every thought I've ever managed to get down -
open,
ready to snap close on the idea.
This particular rascal is
running around my house
at the moment,
knocking over
meticulously stacked books and empty coffee mugs
and tearing up
every stray loose leaf
I had laying around.
“No!” I scold my poem,
her words at the tip of my tongue,
“We don’t run with knives! I repeat-”
She stops for that, but only to
wag her finger at me,
“Don’t bother writing
any words at all,
if they aren’t meant to wake someone up.”
And maybe she’s right.
If only she’d let me
write her down
on even just a napkin.
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