The poem turns up when it wants to

When it’s ready

And everyone is happy

 

I do as I’m told

I follow orders

Precisely

 

The blues, the bottle

The words in between

And whatever’s left

Crumbles and

Falls away

 

Sometimes it’s so simple

Not hard

It’s just like that

 

The poems scratch to be

Let in, they

Crawl across the floor

 

I don’t care how they come

How they arrive

I’m easy like that

 

I think that’s

What they like about me