premiere

It's not on the tip of my tongue.
It's not obvious, like a drum.
Quiet feet start to tap
and my mind starts to hum
that shapeless song, the prospective poem.

The trance ends when you walk in the room.
Our mouths speak but our hearts are on mute.
Leave me 'lone for a while,
in my home, on an isle,
and the poem will quickly resume.

It's not the American Dream,
It's a walk in the woods, two tired feet in a stream.
It's swimming in sadness
that no one can see.
I follow the poem to the bottom of me.

Will you ever be able to follow me here?
Will you ever break down these tall fences of fear?
I keep taking it slow,
I don't know, I don't know.
In the end, all I've got is a poem to premiere.