Writing poetry is
a turn at bat,
a short plate appearance
where you quickly learn
whether you have struck out
or hit for extra bases.
It could be a blast that
has sailed over the fence,
a home run of a poem
that makes you applaud yourself
as you round the bases in joy.
It could be a dribbler
through the infield
which lifts your
poetic average,
but does not represent your best stroke,
and does nothing to connect you to the
cosmic fans sitting in the bleachers.
It could be a strikeout of
a really bad poem,
but it is not the long game of an essay,
or the summer season
of a novel.
So, therefore, I stand,
patiently waiting on deck,
ready to swing for the fences again.