it’s 1:05 am on a work night
and i’m afraid to write a poem.
i’m afraid of finding out
the version of me who worries
about it being 1:05 am on a work night
is not very good at writing poems.

i’m worried that a poem isn’t like a bicycle
but a family dog
and if you come home from a hard day at work
and forget to lock the gate,
it’ll charge off
down the block
and never find its way back.

i have forgotten to lock the gate every single day for a month
and i’m afraid to go into the backyard.

so i don’t.

i shut the curtains and the weeds
snake up the side of the house,
strangle the gutters, strangle everything.

eating honey roasted peanuts in bed
as the shoots overtake the windows,
i feel something a little like lightness
and close my eyes with weird acceptance
for the day the tendrils curl in fists
around the latches and none of them
will open.