Sometimes poems show up

At my mental door fully clothed;

At other times, at the completion

Of one of those rascals,

I feel I've just run the Boston Marathon

(Or tried to).

But however writing comes -- easy, or labored--

Like it was for Flaubert (it is said)

Who took all one morning putting a comma in,

And all afternoon taking it out,

There are few things in my book

Than can compare

To a poem that is "there;"

To words that have established themselves

And there's no more to be shared

On a certain topic, insight, or conviction --

At least at that particular time and place.