as if poetry will come when called.
as if it is not a recalcitrant child
standing in the center of a parking lot
where the silence is something larger
and louder than the storm tearing across the sky

as if it isn't a hollow stick
leaning against the wall
in an abandoned house in the dark.
as if it doesn't suddenly stop
like a film on the edge of breaking.

as if it isn't a house of spun sugar
built by a wicked witch
to catch unwary children.
as if it isn't a handful of coins
scattered across the floor
from a hole in a pocket.

as if i could write a poem on demand
while crows take off shattering
the rain. as if i could write
something as nice as a benediction
on the flyleaf of a book of famous poems
that says "dear Yolanda, with gratitude

for your interest
in these poems and with hope
for your poetry as well..."
as if a poet's wishes took root
and my name was Yolanda
and the book had not come
from a secondhand book store.

as if a poem will wake up now
wake up and run to you,
its heels clicking on marble,
its ribbons flying