The poet said, "Little Missy,
lose the consciousness if you want to write a poem."
So I said,
And here I am putting down words,
waiting for that unconscious
(and thus important) word.
See what I spy with my little eye.
Still waiting for that first unconscious word.
Oh, maybe that itself is the word: waiting.
I am a lady in waiting.
No one says "lady" these days.
I am a woman in waiting.
What do I await?
(Next word, please.)
The first robin (it has to be a robin that I myself see,
not someone else's robin-sighting).
Will a cardinal do? I have already seen (and heard)
(Still waiting. Next word, please.)
For the Robert E. Lee, perhaps.
Is that where this poem is headed?
Down to the levee?
Who could have foreseen that?
What strange journeys come
from the unconscious.