Scudder Parker

Art of the Poem

I imagine myself a cook, and someone
has been stealing my poems again;
I just left fresh ones on the window sill to cool.
Before I could get back...gone!

Sometimes I’m desperate and when
the nephew of a Nigerian prince
urgently needs a small poetry deposit
to secure a vulnerable fortune, I respond at once.

Generally I just leave them on the counter
hoping the children and grandchildren
will find them tempting and grab
a few in passing, like blueberries.

I haunt my wife; latest edits in hand,
embarrassed by my urgency. I want her
to want to steal these words I have not
yet found the way to use in conversation.