Sometimes the poem br doesn't want to come; br it hides from the poet br like a playful cat br who has run br under the house br & lurks among slugs, br roots, spiders' eyes, br ledge so long out of the sun br that it is dank br with the breath of the Troll King. br br Sometimes the poem br darts away br like a coy lover br who is afraid of being possessed, br of feeling too much, br of losing his essential br loneliness-which he calls br freedom. br br Sometimes the poem br can't requite br the poet's passion. br br The poem is a dance br between poet & poem, br but sometimes the poem br just won't dance br and lurks on the sidelines br tapping its feet- br iambs, trochees- br out of step with the music br of your mariachi band. br br If the poem won't come, br I say: sneak up on it. br Pretend you don't care. br Sit in your chair br reading Shakespeare, Neruda, br immortal Emily br and let yourself flow br into their music. br br Go to the kitchen br and start peeling onions br for homemade sugo. br br Before you know it, br the poem will be crying br as your ripe tomatoes br bubble away br with inspiration. br br When the whole house is filled br with the tender tomato aroma, br start kneading the pasta. br br As you rock br over the damp sensuous dough, br making it bend to your will, br as you make love to this manna br of flour and water, br the poem will get hungry br and come br just like a cat br coming home br when you least br expect her.