He told me to write a poem for him

He told me he wanted to read a poem.
So here I am ready to write one.
But I am overly self-conscious of the act,
As if to take that part of me out of context,
The one that is ever slowly reaching for him,
would be wrong, because
the damned thing has a mind of its own
and cannot be caged.

My own thoughts are sifted through a
Better, lighter, sweet, softer, netting.
Reclaimed wool sits on a dusty bench
A slovenly written letter
And I am trying my best
But none of it seems to work.

I wish I was better
I know I'm no good
I wish I walked with my feet parallel
Not the perpendicular V shape that happens
when one foot doesn't know how to step in front of the other.

Maybe it's for the best that I can't think
and get overwhelmed
that way I work hard to stall a little longer
these respites, these moments.