See my post of March 6 for general comments in this vein. This poem addresses the frustration of unfinished work. I had three pieces that weren’t working at this point.

At the Desk

I pass by Paris, pause
for shifting gears,
and I’m back before
the elephant, cut up
but still stewing.

A month’s aging
hasn’t helped. My words
are too weak to wrestle
this beast onto a plate
so I can serve it.

No, “the elephant” is not a poem about an elephant. It’s just the biggest puzzle unresolved.