CIRCUMSTANCE

Snow banishes the world beyond the front windows
The black and white cat stares at me from the sofa
Trying to decide what sort of luck he should bring
When he walks across my path. The yeti
From Wasliya Szymborska's poem is half asleep
In the old pink chair which indignantly recalls
When it lived in Iowa, where there are no yetis.

AMONG THE UNWRITTEN

Picture unwritten poems as a hopeful, shabby lot,
Extras in La Boheme, with eyes keenly focused
On the health of the stars playing Rodolfo or Mimi
Late at night, over coarse wine,

They discuss who might write them into being
"Szymborska? I heard she was dead. Besides,
I don't look good in Polish. There's a Scottish girl
Who might do, but I think she's a bit young for me;
Or then there's always that blog fellow.

His muse tells me he's desperate."