I have been clacking black
spor
-adic(t)
-ally all the live long day,
trying to find a way to spill my
self to page without throwing in
the (white) towel. I have indulged
in a third cup of coffee and a quiet room;
fed myself a bagel and a handful of phrase.

I’ve coughed. I’ve played.

I’ve splayed my fingers loose
and wondered if they’d wander off
on their own
(they tried, but got a bit lost.)

I’ve tossed 16 lines out the window
and fed them to the mocking birds
taunting me from their leafy places.
I’ve left traces of myself all over this house

– an empty cup here, a dang
-ling participle there. I’ve stared
at these walls
(which, by the way, need painting),
and walled myself upstairs in hopes
of just.one.more.moment alone.

I’ve stoned my own path. I’ve tripped and fallen.
I’ve stalled for time. I’ve rhymed, and un.
I’ve had fun. I’ve watched the sun
s t r e t c h    across the sky
and asked it not to set too soon.
I’ve longed for moon. I’ve swooned
at someone else’s lines and bided
my time and staggered my own sway.

I’ve dipped a toe in
and tasted the day.