Straightaway Skirting The Stillborn

You were asking me what 
It was like 
Trying to keep writing 
Poems every day without 
Running out 
Of things that matter—

I didn’t answer 
Right away and asked 
You to ask me again 
Another day—still, why is it

So hard for all of us 
To address each crying 
Issue rearing 
Its head before us, no 
Questions asked, 
Day after day?