Your hands will stop you.
Finding other things to do if you even so much as think about it.
Your house will never be so clean as when you feel the hot breath of a fresh poem down the back of your neck.
Your feet will stop you.
They’ll have you running from your desk, round the park,
round the streets. Even in the rain.
Even in the dark, your feet will never be so light as when you’re chased by a tale that wants to be told.
Your pen will stop you.
Ink like treacle will stick in your throat, in your gullet.
Will you swallow it?
The page will stop you.
Cold and hard as a mirror.
Will you crack it?
Your love will stop you.
What if someone gets cut?
Your pride will stop you.
What if it’s shit? What if it stinks? What if nobody cares?
What if everybody cares?
The clock will stop you.
It will peck away at the day ‘til there’s nothing left but crumbs.
Feed me, feed me, feed me.
And what will you do if one day the alarm goes and what will you do if it rings and rings, insistent like the cry of a baby?
What will you do?
What will you do if it wakes you?