Poet Without a Pen

I am writing in your eyes 
As I listen to you 
As you laugh 

I sigh my poem 
Between the gaps in the day 
While carrying the laundry basket 

I stop at rhyme-words 
Folding your blanket 
Beneath the corners of the mattress 

I press a metaphor 
Against your forehead 
And promise you some more comparisons 

Then I close the door 
And gather up the leftovers of my day 

In your toy box 
A patch of thought on the washing line 
A knife wipe in the tray 

The evening is like the morning before the next day 
Everything has its place 
But there is nothing on paper 

There is nothing on paper
But the walls resound with the chirp of your laugh
I can’t let anybody see how hard I work
But the peace in your body shows me that you are having a good time

There is nothing on paper
The words float among the to-do lists
In watering the plants
Between the dust particles on the baseboards
Behind the sofa

There is no CV for the poet without a pen
Who works magic from moments
Makes ballads and songs from each

There is no CV for my greatest achievement:
Unconditional love
Ego taking last place
Fashion and hairdressing always on the backburner
The feeling that I have to defend myself when I say I am not looking for a paid job

I have time for a sincere smile in the street
I pick you up every day after your first month of school
At the traffic lights with your brother in the pushchair, I brainstorm a new poem

Life then makes me forget it
Because there is nothing on paper

But I have an eye
For the floating word
Its journey
Before it is recorded
The whole day I look
And I touch
The structure
To my tongue
I have antennae
Up to every outer wall

The words collide with each other all day
I feel them vibrate
My detailed sense of touch
And I know how you are

Sometimes I fall for the trap
Believing I’m worthless because I’m not on paper
I have nothing to say how ‘cool’ I am
Except feeling and knowing I’m doing what’s right for me
Then I sigh deeply
Rub a verse through your hair
Sighing a blank line with only a smile
Tuck in the right corners of your blanket
And think:

Life is not on paper
But in my suspended words

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