I have a pesky feeling
there is a poem hiding
from me like a child
waiting to jump out
from behind the curtains
to surprise me, to give me
a laugh, to demand I pick up
a pen to defend myself.
On Guard! I say aloud,
a frisky swashbuckler,
but damn, not for long.
Alas! I am Cyrano
in love with Roxanne
& my nose is in the way.
O! the anguish of loving
unrequited from a far.
Somebody, please tell her
the poetry she loves is mine.
& then…ta da.
