Poems never arrive
Like taxis
When you need help getting
From one thought to another. 
They rarely arrive when you
Sit with your journal
And brand new pen
That doesn’t skip.

Poems arrive
When your hands are occupied
Or you’re in the shower
Or driving down the interstate.
So you repeat the lines
Over and over
Until you are sure they will
Live forever but
once you find a pen and paper,
The poem is dead.
All you can recall is the feeling
You had when you birthed it.
I guess you can’t photograph
The passion of a kiss
In the backseat of a taxi.