i’ve been trying to figure out when the best time
for poetry in a day is,
like the best time to write poetry,
and then the best time to read poetry,
but i can’t seem to reach a conclusive
part of the day, so i suppose poetry is just random,
though it kinda seems lazy to say
not everything that i say is always wrong,
but if i’m being perfectly honest with myself,
then i’d have to say that a vast majority of the things
i think and the things that eventually come out of my mouth,
are not the most intelligent of thoughts,
at least not when compared to every thought that could have been had,
or the ones yet to be known
the little tapping noise
beating angst in the plaster walls,
causing all sorts of speculation
as to what could be the cause of such
a wispy tap-tap-tip-toe-flitting in the walls,
though i have my suspicions,
though i have a right to be suspicious,
but speculation looks like lazy guessing
until i take a sledgehammer to the walls,
being careful not to hit anywhere near an electrical outlet,
and as i poke my nose, first, and then the rest of me, second,
through the looking hole,
i find a small family of mice
playing pictionary in their own living room,
wondering why i’m disturbing their privacy
with my beating against their wall
Fred Aiken Writing 