...i am a poem in progress...

...with no clear beginning
or ending
just a middle
untended
unintended
unfinished
hanging there
like the breath before a question

i am
fairly certain you find me strange
as i speak to you
of the future
when the present is unresolved
enough
but i need an ending
this convoluted limbo
with invisible bookends
... a poem without a name...
is stifling
like the clench of a gut
before an undesired answer

in the space
between two bookends
time passes
with the highest and lowest times
tucked untidily
untended
unfinished
into the frame of a few stanzas
a short story at most
who'd have thought i'd identify
with women writers i've admired
for their wisdom, but also
pitied
for their sorrows
all the same
the stubborn poet in me
who wouldn't trade this for anything--
that says something
i hope

i
hope

i am
a poem in progress
and i'm not sure where i'll end...