Rough Draft Poem by Yours Truly

How to Begin

Before I write I must forget
about how my hair looks
or how my hands feel.
While descriptions of dripping sunlight
arrange themselves silently
and in alphabetical order in the classroom
of my mind, the memories of soft kisses
from former lovers have slipped out of open windows
long, long ago. Before I begin
to attach meaning to the whims of the weather
patterns, I throw baseball, soccer, Ruby Tuesday's,
my internet passwords, old music play-lists,
and even yesterday's dinner into the fire
of forgetfulness like hands full of leaves
quickly burning and becoming rolling clouds of smoke.
I blow on the embers, hoping for
inspiration to light up the sky
like fireworks tossed into a bonfire. In the end
I rake my hand through my hair
while comparing the mid-day sun
to an opera I've never seen.
I will write that the wind was french kissing tree
after tree, without any intention of calling back.
The analogy might even grow to include a studio
audience silently watching storm fronts
running and bumping chests above a tired
and well photographed city skyline.
But again, I'm still trying to decide
how to begin.




(If anyone thinks this is too close to Billy Collins' poem "Forgetfulness" from his book "Questions About Angels", please tell me. I would not like to appear to be ripping off of another, more talented poet. Thank you.)