Ninety Days of A Poem a Day

Like new babies with birthdays
Every day, week, month--
I'm celebrating my new habit.
Ninety days of a poem a day
Reading one, pondering,
Writing one.

My allowance and privilege
My pretension -- if you bear with me,
For ten minutes out of each way.

No labor lasted ten minutes,
But then no artificial need
Developed like eating and sleeping
And sex. And pushing an impossible
Baby.

So I'll celebrate my conscious, shy
Thing -- my habit formed with my
Mind's love for words and people who
Whisper and shout them onto pages,
Bleed in black ink like me.

It's my impossible love, my
implausible pregnancy.
Happy birthday 90 days.