Anybody There?

Who knows precisely when and where poems begin?


Oh, sometimes there is no doubt. The moment and the place are so distinctive that there can be no doubt of that genesis. 


With this poem, I'm not sure. But a possibility came to mind as I looked at it this morning.


It might have been that year when all of our grown sons had returned to celebrate Christmas with us. They were all in the living room when I descended the stairs, and I heard something I hadn't heard for years.


"Run," one of them said, in a stage whisper obviously intended for my benefit. "Here comes Dad ... and this time he's got his stamp album."


That may have been the seed. 


Or this poem simply may have sprung from one of those times when I settled into my chair and just let my mind wander, looking for whimsical paths to explore.


I'm not sure of its exact origin, but it did find a home, eventually, and now here it is ... where I never dreamed it would be when I was having fun writing it.


The poem:

ANYBODY THERE?


If I were to begin
sharing my poetry,
all these feverish
things I’ve written,
would anybody hear?
Would anybody listen
during "open mike"?
Would bus passengers
get up and move out
of earshot? Would
strangers dart down
dark alleys? Would
cats cross the street,
dogs whine, beg off?
Would - I say, would
you please wake up?

© 2003
(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

Today's word: whine