Poem: “Almost”A poem almost came to me the other day
but I was doing something more important
like opening mail or watching the news.
It came—that poem did—
like an on-shore breeze of a summer’s afternoon
that enters through open French doors,
gently rubbing its back and shoulders
along walls and around furniture
before quietly exiting through another door opposite.
And I am napping
in my upholstered recliner,
dreaming of cats I used to own
or playing jazz at a small club just off Bourbon Street,
while a book of poetry someone else has written
gently rests page-side down on my chest
rising and falling as if it was alive.