The pen

is a match.
But no matter how much
I scratch
And scrape
At the paper
It will not catch.

I spend
My days
Putting out fires:
Just one blaze
After another
To smother.

And alll the time
I’m fighting them

I’m wishing I was
Lighting them.

Going far?

Maybe. Just have to see
How legs and heart
Feel when I start. Could be
They’ll baulk, rebel;
And though I beg and scold, just tell me:
You can go to hell
And we’re not coming.

Then again, could be they’re humming
Like a Swiss-made sewing machine
And strong, serene,
I’ll spin through town, into the great
Wide open; hill and mountain will prostrate
Themselves before me. One way to know:
Get on. And go.