A Poet's Room Poem by Jenny Kalahar

There is a woman struggling in a room
writing with fingers riding on the backs of black keys
until cramps creep up her sides and back and knees
and still she writes on.
The room is drowning in books
and smells vaguely of dog and drying teabags.
The woman sits on the only chair
as if it were the outstretched hand of her muse.
A dog sleeps at her feet
curled in contentment
dreaming of the time when spring will come
with green grass to chew
and worms to steal from robins
which cannot be seen
because months are slow to pass in winter.
There is a woman sitting in a room
she knows a lot of things
that have no purpose, or no purpose yet.
She insists upon silence
and thinks about friendships
broken in the storm.
She tries to remember
forgotten dreams,
but then writes of the shadows that remain.
She tries to read what she has written
but cannot—
the font has shrunk and morphed into indecipherable dots
like black scurrying beetles
falling off the edge of the screen
onto the sleeping dog
who does not notice
because she is dreaming of springtime
which cannot be seen
only hoped for,
like some delicate, perfect poem
which may never, ever be written