Today, I worked on a poem

Today, I worked on a poem

struggled with recalcitrant words and stumbling phrases
for hours.  While I was writing, I did not weed the garden
vacuum the house or wash the dishes.  I stared at blank white
and scribbled and re-scribbled the same words over and over,
rearranging them, just a little, a tweak there, a word added,
another subtracted.  All the time, I worried
about how to make the poem sing and how to get the chores
done and would anyone even care.  Why was I doing it,
anyway?  You can't pay someone to hear or read a poem. 
If they listen, grudgingly, do they understand?  Who has time
for poetry when there is television and internet?
I feel guilty.  I'm afraid I am wasting time.  But wait,
this would be so much better if I just deleted
that darned cliche. 


Mary Stebbins Taitt