Waiting for Billy Collins
Somewhere in the house
He is chasing a blind mouse
With a carving knife.
He'll mince it into words
And the pauses he has heard
In his head.
The caesuras, he would say
In his professeuric way,
Tell us how it should be read.
Still, he's flying round the room,
Chasing mice without a broom
Trading verses with the dead
Till he leaves this worthy cause,
Takes a breath and takes a pause,
Fills the silences we've heard
With a poet's every word.
