This poem is a complete waste of time.
You don’t have time to read this poem.
I don’t have time to write it.
And yet, here we are,
me writing, you reading,
occupying both ends of the literary teeter totter,
a silent conversation up and down.
Like me,
you are curious about what I will say next.
If we could talk you would ask,
“What is this poem supposed to be about?”
I would reply, “Don’t know, can’t say.
This poem seems to be writing itself.”
A wild horse ride for me as much as you.l
All I know is that somewhere ahead is a fence,
a gully, a river, or a dry stony creek bed,
a natural block to stop us, bring us to a halt,
if I can’t get this animal under control.
Or the horse will simply run out of steam.
Finally, not any too soon, a stop,
a finish of sorts.
Now, resting,
I remember this poem
was supposed to be about apples.