Look Into

My work is all done for once, and I can
Take a small breather and prepare for what
Is to come. If it does come. I just hope
It does. But in the mean time there is a
Book that I want to get started on (yes,
I do read, may seem surprising to some).
Poetry by Robert Frost—good reading.
I flip through pages and pages of
His works, and as I’m reading them I think
And wonder to myself how one can be
So prolific yet careful with his po’ms.
How I wish I were like that, to have the
Capability to spit it all out
And bleed it all out onto a sheet and
Have it come out and make perfect sense and
Have it categorized as art. What could
This line possibly mean? What does
It keep to itself, not wanting to be
Given out like a flyer, but rather
Be treated like a buried, locked chest.
To only reward those who are patient
And willing enough to dig and pry and
Pick and hack and chop and slam. Go ahead,
Put your back into it you weakling! I
Wonder if people feel the same way? As
Margaret Atwood says, “A child is not a
poem / a poem is not a child”. But
A child is a child, they are them, and he
Is he and she is she and I am me.
Yet I do not want to look at someone as
I do with a po’m—let me enjoy
Them, to look upon them with delight and
Look into them as they speak their answers.
But in the end, we are people, like po’ms,
And as such I will see them as treasure.
How much time has passed? Has it arrived yet?
Nothing like treasure has yet to arrive.