Waiting

I am sitting here waiting for a poem.
It is sure to come
as long as I am patient and keep waiting. 

Impatience does nothing to speed it.

I don’t know from where poetry comes.
There is no one but myself to ask
and I have no clue.

Perhaps you, if you’re a poet, can tell me.

If so, blow a bugle, shout!
Let the secret out!
There is never enough poetry, I’m sure. 

Even with the bad, there is always someone 
who will listen,
even smile and say, “It’s okay.
But next time, just wait a little longer.”

And so it comes,
and you work on it for hours,
but can’t make it right
despite your best efforts to do so.

That is when you know,
not everything you write will be good.
That’s the chance you take.

So what, in the end, do you do?
You quit. Or you keep on trying.

I can’t say writing poetry is easy.
Not at the start.
Nothing of quality is,
but it gets much smoother with practice.

You may find that words like water 
may also flow.