I know. I know.
Yes mom, I know,
the going is slow.
I write and I write
but have nothing to show.

Listen, I know!
My columns have problems I need to address.
I know they're a mess.
They can't go to press.

I'm behind, I'll confess
It's making me stressed.
But I think that I've found a way to progress!
...More or less.

So here is the deal,
I've found a lead,
and it's got appeal.

Yes I've said that before,
and you know how I feel,
but this time it's for real.

Well I'm waiting to talk
with that guy from North Pond.
A suspect, a reject,
an old vagabond.

He's wary, he's scary, elusive and sly,
People are eager, they're all asking why
he ran off and hid
and he slid off the grid
all without even saying goodbye.

Well, or even hello. ...I know.

Yes mom, I know.
I shouldn't assume.
But I can't hold my excitement,
It's filling the room.

So I wrote him a letter,
Then two, then four,
He responded, we bonded,
we built a rapport.

And now I have gotten the jail to confirm it.
They gave me my permit
to speak with the hermit.

My schedule looks steady,
Puzzles for solving.
Interview's ready.
The story's evolving.

How does the jail cell restrict him?
When will the jury convict him?
What's the right way to depict him?
Is he a villain, a vagrant, or victim?

I know. Yes mom, I know,
I have one submission.
This might be my chance
at that Chicago position.

I hope the boss will react,
I'll have something to show.
This feature is packed,
Ideas are starting to flow.
...I know.

I want to have something to say,
like Gloria Steinham or Dorothy Day.
A good story to tell, like from Ida B. Wells,
one that is more than just whistles and bells.

I know!
Although...
If I write this North Pond story,
I'll find my way out of this dull purgatory
Jumpstart my career,
and do what I planned.
Move out in a year,
it's all in my hands.

Pack my bags for Chicago,
far from Maine and its snow.
You'll see, soon I'll be,
"Chelsea Marlowe:
The writer who gave this strange hermit a voice
Who gave him a way out, who gave him a choice."

I know it will be hard to get him to speak,
this riddle from North Pond whose answers I seek.

'Til then, I'll lie low, I know, I know,
Ok mom, gotta go, tell the family hello.
Here he comes, gotta run.
I'm nervous!
I know.