Left alone. Contemplative roam. Reflexive, like
the throw of a stone. Again, tilt glass.
The thens, will pass. Flutter in druthers like a
mutter in buzzers. Unfinished poems, tossed
in a basket, Literary casket. My creative
consciousness, drastic. Unnerving mathematics.
Wishing for rain, like fishing sane. Drops
drench the concrete on a long street, to a palm
tree. My desk, no surprise, a mess. Sip 4,
dip more in Merlot, stirred so.
Slowing down so I don’t drown, or clown around
in an absence of sound. If only I could
scribble something profound, like Poe, Pac, or Plath.
No, not a sad moment. If it was, I’d disown it.