The poems are out there

The poems are out there. . .

Some simply peering

through the window

at me.

Sometimes they hide among the

bushes where small children play.

Often in the dark clouds

where lightening

drives the wind.

Some hide in shadowed doorways

up and down the street. . .

or inside the deli

across the way.

Sometimes I have to search

them out. . .

capture one,

and drag him screaming home.

But mostly I find

that there are enough poems hidden

inside my bottle of Scotch.

I have but

to fill my glass. . .

and drink them in.

h. morgan 7/6/93