In it

Almost there,

he thought;

I’m almost done, and then I’ll have accomplished something,

and maybe

that’ll be it,

maybe I’ll have written my last page,

my last poem,

my last story;

maybe I’ll never worry

about pens and ink and notepads and papers

and editing and transcribing

ever again;

maybe this is the last poem

I ever write;

no more burning in my guts,

no more wasted words,

no more cramped hands,

no more cluttered desk,

no more yearning;

make it all safe,

make it all clean,

making it all worth starting over;

maybe there is a day

the fire goes out,

the mind rests,

and the spirit calms;

I don’t really remember

a time before all of this,

before I didn’t know what to do

other than to try

to flush everything out;

anyway,

the problem is

I’m seeing 

almost-there

as a way out

and there is no way out.