Hop on the page, silver pen.
Need a boost to get up here?
Here you go. It’s not so easy
any more, starting a new poem.
It used to be they came
flying through the window.
All I had to do was
paste them on the page,
Then I’d sit back in my chair
and read them, but now
I’ve reached another stage:
sometimes it’s hard to find a chair
or a clean sheet of paper.
The pen’s awkward for a stiff hand,
my glasses from unshed tears
cloud with vapor.
Still, I try to keep on going.
A cup of coffee can be of help.
I wish that I liked tea, that sounds more
like a drink the poets drink to me.
Now at the end these days,
a poem stands on shaky feet.
“I’m done,” it shyly says.
I lay down my heavy pen,
feeling tired and weak,
reluctant as I approach
to take an apprehensive peek.