Broken Fridge Poem

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.