Times Like This

 

Why do I only write poetry

at times like this? Moments

when nothing in the world

makes sense; especially

the neutrons circling around

and around in my head

like lifeless branches trapped

in an eternal whirlpool. Just once,

I'd like to write a poem

during a second of clairvoyance.

To stay in that second for the five

to ten minutes it would take me

to jot down my new-found

perspective. Instead, I wait

until uncertainty wraps me

in its giant suffocating arms

to put my worthless thoughts

on a piece of paper,

which will one day turn to dust

that in all probability will be

worth more than all my fantasies,

hopes, desires, and ideas combined.

Why, oh why, do I insist

on writing poetry at times like this?