I tend to agree with Ted Kooser when
he says you should never send a poem into
the world with its shirt untucked.
But what if the poem invites us in?
Maybe there’s a place for
unfinished drafts written by
a tired mama on her sofa after dark.
Poems in pajamas, words in a hurry.
Fragments and documentation,
the absurd and the full-of-delight.
Here on this worn out couch with
I scribble out vulnerable messes—
an exercise in paying attention,
in giving the critic inside
a drink of water and sending her
back to bed.