SAM

Hi, Sam.

Sorry I didn’t pick up when you called.

I was busy.

You were waiting, I know.

You’re so patient.

You wait out in the sun,

Thinking up metaphors for birds,

Explaining with verbs the

Contours of trees.

You sing better than me,

Your voice big and wide

Like the clouds.

Me, I’m muffled.

The laundry has me choked.

Dirty dishes don’t smell as nice

As the wet leaves.

I watch you picking dandelions

And I’m jealous.

I want to braid strands of grass

And eat fresh peas.

I want to gab for hours with you

On the phone, then go for a walk,

Under your hat, laughing at the

Antic squirrels, looking out for hornets’ nests,

Singing songs, arm in arm.

I miss you, Sam. Come back to my pen;

Help me fill the page.

Nonsense or verse, you decide.

I’ll wait out in the sun this time.

 

[The prompt for this poem is as follows: “Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Give poetry a personality. Maybe a gender. Personify poetry and describe him/her. Now write a poem that suits your view or vision.” I’m not sure I *quite* achieved what the prompt was asking. This poem is more about me and my relationship to poetry. I have no idea why I chose the name “Sam.” It was one of those instantaneous things. I needed a name and I just thought, “Sam.” I’m not quite sure who Sam is… Samuel means “name of God” or “God heard.” Maybe there’s something there? It’s also ambiguous. Could be man or woman. Anyway, it’s Sam.]