The poem that won't be written, or won't appear, or can't be lured, or isn't here

I was looking through an old file of poetry scraps and found the bones of this poem. This is definitely still a familiar feeling--that a poem is out there but it won't come any nearer.

Little painting by my oldest.

It is the voice in the next room, heard but not understood
the wash of pipes pushing water through the walls

no brown crunch of leaves when you step in the gutter
the oil stain left by peanut butter

phone ringing, then going dull
they hang up when you pick up

endless ring of invisible cricket
silver key that doesn't fit

wet socks in wet weather in wet shoes
dry mouth and dusty riverbed

the cat that won't come closer 
when you ssssppssspppsss