                       Will You Write Me?


I can't see them or hear them or smell them, 
But I know they're there:  
Unwritten poems, waiting for some poet to give them form. 

There's one at the end of that row of trees, 
Leading my gaze off into vague infinities 
Of memories and daydreams.  

And there's another lying in the gutter with that old tennis ball, 
Perhaps reminiscing about better days and laughing children 
While mourning the glory that was not to be 
At Wimbledon.  

And there are always several up in the sky, 
Floating around with the birds
Or the clouds
Or the stars.  

They wait, unseen, unheard, 
Until the right poet approaches.  
Then one will leap into the writer's brain, 
Or maybe sneak in on foggy cat feet
And slowly make its presence known over time.  

I'm usually not the poet they want.  
But now and then I am honored
When one does choose me.  


                                        -- Tom Digby 
                                        First draft 22:11 08/07/2003
                                        Revised     14:30 08/09/2003
                                        Revised     17:52 08/14/2003
                                        Revised     13:40 10/04/2003

