I'm Trying
So often I sit down here and nothing comes.
My hand is thirsty for the pen, the sound of
it on the paper is like the rush an addict gets
when he uses.
Or maybe not quite. Definitely cleaner.
but I was saying
Nothing will come though I need to write.
and so you'll get this
ink wasted on the page
or
short sentences.
like a rush of pigeons above the hotness of a city
wings desperately seeking to escape the crowdedcrampedquarters where death is the postman,
words spilling and tumbling out onto the white pavement,
whitewashed pavement,
hurryingflappingthrashing suddenly change
ashes
imagine a different picture, different but the same.
same place. the smell has changed though.
feathers blow quietly, gently through the streets
and brush at your face as you try to
sleep on a street corner. up at the sky.
their pinions are desperate no longer.