A poem a day was a tall order
too tall, really.
The burden of proof was heavy
especially for a budding wordsmith,
whose skills are rusty
who has too many blank pages between then and now.
But a poem a day is easy
for the secret woman I am inside.
The woman who lives in the tiny apartment
above the Florentine plaza,
where the afternoon sun settles
in the loveliest spot
and she writes, uninterrupted,
until it is time to walk downstairs,
ask the woman in the café below
for a bottle of wine,
some cheese and prosciutto.
She sits still and silent,
letting her eyes rest
on the men and women passing her table.
She imagines the places they live,
the jobs they love or hate,
how their bodies look in various stages of undress,
what they whisper to their mothers,
children, landlords, lovers
at the end of the day.
A poem a day was too difficult here.
But the secret woman I am inside,
well, she memorizes the stories of strangers
while she eats her supper,
chews her words carefully
turning them over and over in her mouth,
taking the time to get the sounds just right
before she returns upstairs