Poem Looks for Poetic Impetus

In his writing, he waits
for inspiration, waiting
for his writing to begin, starting
with the impetus, the spark that’s
not an easy metaphor, the story that’s
not an easy way out, a futurity
that’s not now.

(Perhaps he could create a narrative
presence, a persona, and call him
“Poem” . . . no that would be
too easy)

The word sits squat
immovable, innate, not an impetus
at all and yet . . .
after a span,
it wavers, there is movement,
the word twists in an indivisible
wind, and the poem begins
by describing its own
disability . . .

(Poem could draw on nostalgia,
an interminable debt, a torrid
addiction; nostalgia hopes
for use, wishes Poem
would fall back into his
unsteady hands.)

But Poem is the word he is
waiting for, his own name, waiting
for the word to distinguish itself
from other words, Poem
waits for his own separation
from the world, waits
to launch from the page,
begins to enjoy waiting . . .