Don't say you haven't written a thing.
There was that recipe for your father's crepes.
Your signature on the check that paid the water bill.
Your poor penmanship that made your phone number look indecipherable
to the woman who might have offered you a job.
The thank-you note. The birthday card.
The loops on a steamy bathroom mirror.
The jackhammering of a near-empty pen on looseleaf.
The doodle during the Musak that kept you on hold with the bank.
In the seat of wordlessness, you nevertheless pantomime,
your eyes cartwheeling wildly, and even in the great kiss
that broke you in half and made you whole, you were making
an additional effort
with your hands,
and the synonyms for happiness and gratitude
careened out of your pores until the air was thick
with your fog-tinted love songs.
So you see.
When you say
you haven't written,
we both know
The world has become populated
with your poetry.
The words are all over