Rough Draft
Sept 17 2010


Some days, I write on the back,
the blank side
of the rough draft
of an old poem,
surprising myself.
Because I move on to the next,
forgetting what I wrote
a year ago
the day before.

And without the hard evidence
of false starts, and missteps,
the finished piece would seem almost effortless.
As if the ink had flowed smoothly
onto vacant pages
in sure lines, perfect cadence,
each clever rhyme
the trenchant turn of phrase.
As frugal with words
as I am with paper.

So these rough drafts
are like archaeology,
a painstaking excavation
into process.
Or like a blow-by-blow account
of my bare-knuckle brawl
with myself.

And when both sides are crammed to the margins
I can crumple them into the trash
with untrammelled conscience,
the champ, by acclamation
unopposed.
Some day, I suppose
my literary biographer
will be greatly disappointed I’ve buried my past,
smouldering in some landfill,
or recycled
into rough sanitary products.
So allow me to apologize
in advance.

Today, though, I began
a fresh white sheet,
letter-sized, unlined
loose-leaf.
The kind of day I needed a fresh start
a clean break,
all original sin
expiated.

There is much to be said
for the luxury of the pristine page.
The way a newborn babe
comes unencumbered by the past,
a blank slate
waiting to be filled.
And as each word
mars the perfect surface
it’s like a child’s first step —
triumphant, if unsure.
Both of us
making up the future
as we go.