Writing a play is something like a snowball.
Rolling and rolling and rolling.
Picking up snow as it goes
(along with some mud, leaves, and sticks that you try to pick out but some are just stuck in there).
Growing and growing
Until it sits plunk
and won’t go anymore.
what the hank,*
am I going to do with this
that I huffed and puffed to create
that didn’t even end up where I thought it was going to end up.
I kind of hope someone comes along and
(But you kind of like it.)
Someone walks past and stops to look
at your ball of snow.
They reach out and touch it.
They start to roll their own ball of snow.
This is why I did it.
*Please excuse my strong language. I am apologetic and feel somewhat guilty (but not enough to take it out of the poem.)