Friday, December 17, 2010


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.
(Friday, 12/17/2010)

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