Still not there

I suppose I’ve always wanted to write a prose poem.  What I’ve been trying to write here, in all its all, is just that, but I know it’s lacking, even across time and space and in the spinning gyre that is my work.  A prose poem would evoke the autumn sky I see when I look out the window of my apartment, would capture the sing song pitch of my son as he interrupts my work, would find a way to bring the scent of bacon and overripe pear and coffee and gin to the page.  But I can’t write a prose poem.  I can only write.  And prepare the bath for my son, warm air rising as he yawns on the couch, trying to delay the inevitable, the sound of radio baseball and thunder outside.  My prose poems are long and wandering, and I can’t find the source.  I still want to write a prose poem.