Its possible I was born a poet
The most painful experience
Of my mother’s life:
A blue and red package of rage
Forced into life too soon
Chased by an overeager
Doctor’s needle
Evacuated by chemicals
Wrenched out green with screaming
By metal forceps
Its possible I had no choice
But to become a poet
The third happy accident
Of my parents short marriage
Born with the gift of sight
The unwilling companion of spirits
Things that go bump in the night
An artist at a young age
With inquiring eyes
Too many whys
Too many miles
And not enough time
What else really
Could I have become?
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