just another damned poem

you
asked me for
poetry, in that backhanded
way you do, the way
i
always have to ask.
driving home alone, late-night
back to you.
i
thought of what it is,
that poetry is for
love you dig into
desperate, like climbing sandstone.
i
thought of concrete and granite,
smoothly paved roads
all leading back home.
i
finally decided it would be a
dreaded day, as dark and cold
as this one is, when
i
walked from the kitchen,
to a room less lonely
than the one you're in
to write your poem.
10.22.04