Hour Twelve

One hundred words
to grace a page
requiring wordsmiths
to count seems
risky, even
for marathon poets
who trudge through
when sinking
in uninspired quick sand. 25

Better to ask a bird
to quiet her song,
a fish to hold its breath,
or a bear to whisper
a bedtime story. 41

Easier to find a leprechaun
counting gold at the end
of a solid orange rainbow,
or a mermaid skiing
on snow banks in Africa.57

Easier even to plea
for pardon from scorned lover,
a stoic judge,
or grandma on a rainy day
when kids crowd around feet
unable to go outside and play. 73

Still I type and count,
type and count, disregarding
the credibility of the muse
perched upon my shoulder
whispering in my ear.

Eighty-eight and counting
with the clack
clack
clack
of keys
spilling letters
on this page
until they reach
completion.

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