It is hard to practice
As it is to write a poem
Easy to sit in a chair and pick up instrument or pen
But then—how to find
In my mind the space to fill

Full of trash—that’s the problem
Littered with things to do
Meals, phone calls, errands
All skittering about—they will not,
Will not let me see or hear the way the line of notes or words
Should move, naturally, truthfully

Immobilized I wait
Hopeing for an opening, a break
In the tangle of irrelevances
When I can speak

Lari Smith