still waiting for the right moment to present itself in Optima Bold

she’s cold,
sitting here with all these 
(unlocked) 
keys, and could someone please 
turn down the music in the hall? 
she’s all 
thumbs (and frankly they can’t type) 
and she’ll never live up to the hype 
of her own design. 

fine, 
she’ll clack a black line 
or two. see? there’s three. 
so why don’t we (four) 
just call it a day? …please? 

she’s trying to tease 
her muse into sway, 
find the space (bar) 
to say she might return. 

she’s burning the candle 
(the coffee, 
the page) 
at both ends, making ah
-mends with cramped fingers 
and rage. 

she’s blocked
and fear-flocked 
and half-cocked 
and (so far) unrocked 
by the way 
the words want to fall 
and flail 
and flee
(not flow). 

and so,
it’s time 
to 
go. 

starting lines 

we draw them in sand 
across the sky 

dashed down back highways 
and where waves kiss land. 

we fold them again 
(and again and again) 

and hold them to the light 
of the moon’s bold face. 

ready 
set 
grace. 

Forgot to post these on my own blog yesterday. In November, we poem.

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