Raincheck in a drought

Come back tomorrow.

There is no poem here.
I tried but…

... no iris blossoms dropped
voluptuous tears on the page,
there was no elixir I could distill
from the morning mist;
you know, from that misted meadow
of my sleep where your voice
once foaled six galloping dreams?

There was only silence,
dry dry layers of silted silence
caked and crusted
on the notepad.
If I could crush and grind the crust
under my fisted palms
and blow the dust and flakes
of silence at my own face,
into my own eyes
then maybe …
… but no. No.

I even tried imagining
I was a little girl imagining
that if I blew hard enough
on the six candles
daddy would stride in through the door,
walk over and hug us,
home for good from the I-promise-this-is-the-last
tour of duty.

With my eyes shut tight under her curtained bangs,
the candle flames flew away
and the wicks saluted smellily
but dad did not walk into the room
and I didn’t write a poem
and I am not sure if what I imagined was being the imagining girl
smelling the smelly candles
or the father stuck somewhere
on the other side of the door.

I don’t even know who the girl is
or if she even is or ever was
or if dad ever made it home.
Strange, I did hear his voice.
“Happy birthday” it said,
but our eyes were closed and I don’t know
if the voice was here
or there, on this
or that side of the door.

I don’t really know if it matters.
I think it might, perhaps it must,
but I can’t be sure.
All I know is that
there is no poem here.
Please come back tomorrow.