Rhetoric

What if I let down my hair and let
it tumble down my back as I lean
forward over my writing desk?

What if I wrote in my dressing gown
without the whale bone and laces,
not caring a whit about calling cards in my purse?

What if I sneaked an orange from the kitchen
and did not join the family at breakfast? Then
no one would criticize my ink-stained fingers.

What if I could just stare out the window
at my cherry tree and conjure up the words
of great poets and call them my own?

Then I’d be accused of copying the masters
and having no voice of my own. How can I—
when it has been tethered to corsets of tired phrases?