Stephen King Says
His stories are not built,
not laid out cold,
as his godly fingertips
hover and peck
at the behest of his godly brain.
He doesnít know if the butler did it
or even who got done.
The weather of the story is suddenó
Heís never ready, heís drenched.
Characters are not sent for
to populate his pages, they invade.
The girl in the yellow raincoat
steps up quietly from behind to offer
a share of her umbrella
before heís finished the deal
with the grizzled geezer who
insists itís not garlic on his breath,
itís onions. Places only seem
to be places King knows.
Cities come up from below
like Atlantis, streets named, flags
raised, mayors in office.
He is lost in strange neighborhoods
until the same girl, whose name
he never finds out, turns up
behind the counter in a diner
and shows him on a napkin
how to find his way back.