Evening light pales into my windows from behind the palms,
piloting in a fruity breeze to stir the pages
at my desk. I’m 30 percent writing,
25 percent sipping tea, 9 percent listening to jazz beats &
63 percent certain my poetic Muse has taken the day off.

My mind is playing Checkers, or Battleship
or Monopoly, something long, since I’ve been here
for ages, and can only do the light thing. Occasional rhymes
occasional rhythm, but the hand that writes
stubbornly remains made of skin.

Outside in the courtyard, the children are pretending
to kill each other again. I drop a cookie on the wooden table
and swipe the crumbs to the floor. This beat is strange;
when I change it, my cat swipes at my toes.

Discombobulated head space,
swirling circles of long words and a blank page—
all that light is now swathed in a heavy black quilt.
The giant lamp of the universe has been clapped off by the giant.

Going everywhere, ending nowhere,
I stretch to encompass the lot of it.



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