Finding time. It evades and plays.
And I’m not in the mood.
My plans want attention, the constant
Concrete smack. My pages pile, not edited,
Even a word. Glasses, empty, and
I stare at them, thinking what I should pour. There’s a spot in the top slide of
It’s edge. Not in the frame to clean it,
Or anything. My novel, left on the counter,
Some other bar. So much work to
Do now, write it again. What do I– or
How do I handle this? Good thing I
Bought that coffee tonight, on sale. Four