Prodigally Content

How many poems are in me?
Is it a host? Or legion?
Or only one more?
I was going to count, but
demurred, recalling their
surreptitious character.

But I do know that every
now and then, a poem
deigns to let go, and
then again like
an echo
comes back to haunt me,
sauntering
about my ear –
foreign yet familiar and
prodigally content
to shadow me.