The Real Poem

It is early and I am up
like it is so many mornings
like I start so many poems

and Mozart is playing on the radio,
now angry
but he started off kind of soft and tempting
all velvet strings and fog
but it turned into trumpets and flutes
too much metal clanking for a nearly august morning

when the heat is finally settling on this city
and creeping under my clothing
making me itch,
making me distracted
making this poem even harder to write

especially cause I hate writing about writing,
it’s like stalling till the main act comes on stage
and I feel myself sweating under the spotlight
making lame jokes
and awkward too loud laughs
glancing at the sidelines
for the real act to come on
to another empty room.

And I fidget,
toe tap
and weight shift
hair twist
and nail bite
lip pinch
and nibble
my mouth
opens and closes
and opens and closes
like a fish
about to read Shakespeare.

But it’s okay,
this isn’t the real poem
the real poem is coming up
and man,
it’s going to be so good,
you are going to say to yourself,
wow, what a line,
what a poem.
It’s going to knock your socks off,
guaranteed
any minute now,
just you wait and see.