Sometimes, I have a thought, or perhaps,
a thought has me, and it bores down to bone,
runs through the length of marrow.
This particular idea, one of truffle rarity, like hearing
a lone wolf howl, inappropriately called
when I planned to sit and read for lunch.
I had a few books of poetry, all crisp and clean,
spread across my lap, ready for digest
(even the lamppost leant in curiosity)
but this thing called and begged for company,
to be penned when potent, to be grasped by the scruff.
Keats. Auden. Plath. I’m sorry. I can’t sit and read.
The hounds are calling me to write.