this is the poem I didn’t write

This is the poem I didn’t write because I’ve been thinking about rice cookers. I read reviews, skimmed commissioned articles, and wondered if this would be the one that solved all our problems. Our problems are not rice problems.

This is the poem I didn’t write because every morning, the train driver says, “ladies and gentleman, good morning…” And every time I think he’s going to say something else. He doesn’t. That’s it. Good morning.

This is the poem I didn’t write because we rush and our friends are sad and the breaking news won’t stop breaking (us). We aren’t sure if we should fight, flee, or freeze. We scroll.

This is the poem I didn’t write because the toddler learned how to climb onto the couch. I didn’t write because I had to catch her. And catch her again. I didn’t write because she took my notebook and ran away. If I catch her, she laughs. If I take my notebook back, she cries.

This is the poem I didn’t write. I was thinking again about some kind of writing process. One that includes rules that keep changing. Like if I plan enough I will write enough. But I forget that writing enough is a reach you can never grab. The more I write, the more I write. Planning and little notebooks and any words on any kind of page are the poem I didn’t write.

The Poem I Didn’t Write, Raymond Carver
Here is the poem I was going to write
earlier, but didn’t
because I heard you stirring.
I was thinking again
about that first morning in Zurich….