The poem in my knee can predict rain
coming, but not whether it’s a storm
or steady drizzle. The poem
in my ear hears that train
in the distance long before
it’s near Linden Road. On a warm
spring day, like today, the poem in my eyes
can tell the future. It’s not always right,
but it has its moments. When I’m torn,
conflicted, unable to decide,
the poem in my heart tries
to speak. Its voice is wet and garbled.
Sometimes, I forget it’s there
and go about my business, a simple guy
hoping for more luck than anyone deserves.
And the poem in my skull
is the loudest. It shouts into the night sky
like it’s dying, which it is. Those poems,
bleeding out and beautiful,
are the ones, I admit, I refuse to write.
About David James
After 21 years as a college administrator, David James entered the faculty full-time to teach writing at Oakland Community College. Best move of his career. He loves the energy and wit and surprise that each day in the classroom brings. His second book, She Dances Like Mussolini, won the 2010 Next Generation Indie book award. He's also been lucky to have thirty of his one-act plays produced from New York to California.
