Written 2/07
with her small, brilliant voice
and sharp eyes,
asking me if I had completed the assignment -
written enough words to fulfill the word count
on the writing prompt,
"going home,"
(whatever the hell that meant),
and I had contrived a reply
to buy myself time,
but then I felt that familiar feeling -
the one I get every time I read
Wordsworth or Emerson -
like a javelin, or whaling hook,
thrust from some outer darkness,
caught in my chest, my ribs,
and some distant cable pulling,
pulling me somewhere to some stage
of new enlightenment,
and I decided, instead of responding,
to let it lead me,
as I took my leave of her
and picked up my own javelin
to sit over a pool of thought
and spear enough well-placed words
substantial to meet
the word count.
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