Lament for a Drowned Poem

Last night,
right in the middle,
cuddled in your arms,
with two cats warming
my back and legs,
I woke up.

It wasn't a startle or snore
that broke my slumber.
It wasn't the dog barking
from her pillow on your side.
It wasn't belly pains
or needing to pee.
It wasn't even a dream.

A poem woke me.
A love poem, of sorts.

It started days ago,
before our anniversary.

Words tap-danced in my head.
They ran, leaped and soared.
Images of children we might have had,
imagined memories
of twenty years we didn't have together.
Beautiful half-thoughts,
wonderful pictures
of might-have-beens
refused to be caught -
refused the finality of paper.

Then last night
it was there.
The poem was perfect.
This time, 
the words waltzed in perfect time.
Images held,
the story was told.
Everything I needed you to hear
was there.

I listened to you breathe
and the cat snore.
I wrote it,
holding my imaginary pen and book,
my fingers twitching
under the blanket.

I wrote it over and over
on that paper
in the book
in the back of my eyes
so I would remember.

This morning,
in the shower,
walking the dog,
eating breakfast,
cleaning the apartment,
the script was clear -
unsmudged.

But one look at the computer
and the inevitable happened.
Doused with water of reality,
the words ran and dripped
down that page.

They coalesced in an inky puddle
at the bottom of the screen
and no matter how hard I poke,
stir, heat or shock
that pool-full-of-poem,
it refuses to come out.

So, instead,
of that perfect one,
you have this:
A lament for a drowned poem.

Kathleen Hover
09/13/02