I don’t have a title.

I don’t have a poem.

There isn’t one hiding in the backgrounds.

I think we are both still simmering from an earlier interruption.

Have you ever been in the throws of passion,

just about to reach that volcanic explosion;

ready to jump off into the climatic cliff

when all of a sudden a toddler or God forbid older child makes their way in?

That is what it feel like to have an interrupted poem.

I am still mourning its loss.

If no one but me me felt it,

does that mean it didn’t really exist?

I have a list of titles for poems whose writing I looked forward to with great expectation-

but I am deflated,

all because of a poem interrupted in birth.

I hope it will come back.

But will it be the same if it comes back to me and I give it another name?