It stared simply enough,
trying to remember
the poem about
dancing with daffodils,
and not knowing
the poetry hotline number.

Later, I saw something
spectacular,
I can’t remember
what it was now
and so the idea
escaped.

I started carrying
a small notepad
around with me
which helped much of the time
but then
I would be driving on the parkway
and couldn’t write in my notepad
so I started recording thoughts
speaking into
my cellphone.

I read about
the lack of poetry emergencies
and thought,
“I’m relieved,
but also sad.”

What is it like
to catch a glimpse
or smell a smell
on a fine day
only to have it escape,
unwritten,
even if the idea
is saved
in a notebook
to be written later?

I weep for my stillborn poems,
conceived
but not carried to term
and I tell my stories
at Poets Anonymous.
“Hi, my name is Aldon
and I’m a poet.”