Inspired by a new Billy Collins poem,
I hurried home, eager to write,
certain I could catch the same effortless current—
only to watch this poem unfold
like a half-deflated balloon,
listing sideways, refusing to rise.
It’s like hearing Hendrix tear through Gypsy Eyes
on a ’68 Strat, then grabbing my cheap Ibanez,
only to fumble my way
through a discordant version
of Three Blind Mice.
Inspiration arrives unannounced,
never knocking, never waiting,
slipping in through an open window
or vanishing just as you reach for it.
You hunt for it, but it won’t be found—
only stolen in quiet moments,
when the mind is ajar,
when the hands are too full to catch it.
One day, it’s a revelation,
a masterpiece in the making.
The next, it’s a half-formed thought,
tossed to the basement of the mind,
left to gather dust
until you’re desperate enough
to let it back in.
The Truth About Tigers 