One of these days, a poem will come to me. Most probably, it will be during an ordinary hour, with ordinary minutes ticking around inside it. And during one of those minutes, I will think of a word, which will undoubtedly be followed by a lustrous string of other words which might make up an entire coherent phrase. But alas, during that moment, I'll be conducting an interview with a person who looks this:

And of course, I'd excuse myself, telling him I'd be back. It's just that a literary emergency has come up and this person will no doubt understand how inspiration works since he himself is something imaginary and fragmented. So he'll let me go ahead. He'll say Take all the time you need. I'll walk away thinking how gruff and deep his voice sounds.

Then I'll sit at my tiny cubicle which looks like all the other cubicles in our floor. I'll take out the Post-Its that I bought last January. All the Post-It pages are unused. This give me a sense of vindication because they are clean and devoid of any meaning.

Finally, after many months, I'll be writing a poem. I'll be immersed in all its goodness and its hefty love. I will forget about the world and this crazy year and my insane life. I am buzzing with meaning now and understanding and gratitude. I am a reservoir of words, all possibly American, enriched by thought-up derivations and differing meanings. I am neither happy nor intelligent, I can stand apart from emotions and stereotypes. I am a reservoir of words then just a word then just a letter then the air.

After an hour or two, I'll be done with the poem. I will fold the pages neatly and carefully and will put them inside my small drawer which can be locked by a key I carry around with me.

I will not notice the silence at first. But when I return to the room I left an hour ago, I will find that he is gone. And so is everyone else.