Hey pen…
     hey paper…look -
I know I told you that
     we’d spend more time together
     last night, and
I’m really sorry…
     I guess I just got carried away
     doing all of the things that I do.

I lost track of time, it seems,
     and by the time I realized
     that I’d left you waiting all night,
my eyelids had turned into
     so much stone
     that I knew I would have to give in to sleep
if I was to have any
     sense of productivity
     the next day.

Listen, poem…
     I understand
     what you’re feeling.
You’ve been trapped inside my head
     for a while now, and I can relate
     to how anxious you must be to escape.
I’m always looking
     for a way out
     myself.

So please don’t think
     I’m just making excuses here;
     I just want you to know
what I was doing
     while you were waiting
     for me to come back home:

 In the time I spent
not writing,
I had removed the shows from
my feet,
rolled up my pant legs,
and walked
along the river,
looking for the edge of the world.

I walked all through the day,
     and while I never found
   what I was seeking,
for a brief moment I remembered
what it was like to be an innocent wanderer,
     and it made me feel young and alive again. 

While I was walking,
I came upon an old park bench
     so I sat down for a moment,
   took a load off my weary bones,
and looked up at the sky
trying to see if I could find
God’s Face
in the clouds. 

I didn’t find Him,
but I did meet an old gray man
     who had more poetry in his soul
   than I will ever have in my skull.

He told me his stories,
   and I told him mine.
We talked until the sun slept,
     when I said to him

             “Old man, you’ve told me many stories,
            and for that I thank you, but now
             I must be on my way.”

He gazed at me with tired eyes,
 then turned away and looked at the moon.
With a voice that sung
   to all of the pinpricked stars, he said 

            “Son,
               you’ve got a long road to travel,
                 and I can see you’ve got years of journey ahead
               until you reach your final rest.
            But don’t ever let yourself believe –
                        even once! –
                 that you’re too busy
              to stop and share your stories
                   with old men
                   on park benches
                   in the middle of the woods.”

 
So with that in mind,
     I set out once more,
   made my way to the pier,
and watched the moon
   shine across the tops of waves
until exhaustion enveloped me
     and I was carried away
   on silver wings of sleep. 

So you see, pen…
            you see, paper… 
I could not make use of you
     the way you wanted me to…

 I was too busy being alive.