What is this, this gift, all haggard and fuzzy
like dewy mail left on the stoop,
keeping me up at night, keeping me from
staying clear-eyed and stoic-hearted,
keeping me in my manic ways scribbling
notes and letters, humming and talking
only to myself?
With this gift I cannot make
many or much with my hands,
I cannot persuade with graceful argument,
I cannot solve predicament or problem,
I cannot, consistently, keep food on the table.
What is this, this gift, these words and
this longing, showing up at all hours
after weeks out and away
like some flighty lover
demanding to be loved?