The poem hurled itself at my feet,
pleading to be written.
It was a poem a about a broken fridge.
‘Broken Fridge Poem,’ I say,
‘what makes you think
I have the time to write you?’
You have the time to stare at clouds;
to sit and read;
to do nothing.
‘Staring at clouds is a vital part of being a poet,’
I say. ‘Sitting and reading? Doing nothing?
Some things are harder than they look.’
Broken Fridge Poem looks at me.
If you don’t write me down,
it will be as if I never was.
Broken Fridge Poem tells me his life story.
‘Life stories are not poems,’ I tell him,
after he’s finished. ‘They are novels.’
But Broken Fridge Poem
is no longer at my feet,
giving me too much detail.
He sits there on the page,
a cacophony of handwriting.