the seesaw

a reporter
comes to visit you
and ask you questions
for a feature article
he's doing
on failed poets.
it's going
to run in the kid's
section
of the post. he
takes your picture
first while
you rub your unshaven
face and swat
at a gnat circling
your ear.
so how long have you
been writing, he says,
staring into your
bloodshot eyes.
since i was four, you
reply. not well, but
i started then.
interesting, he says.
and what makes you
write, what makes
a poet tick deep
inside, what are
your inspirations.
i don't know, you say
and look out the window.
two kids are on a seesaw.
you can only
see one of them as she
goes up and down
against the blue sky,
her pig tails blow
in the wind.
a look of pure joy
and exhilaration
is on her face. what?
you say, did you ask
me something?