Steam rolls off black coffee,
women’s voices rise
from next door,
then wane for a moment
while I wait for my muse,
apparently AWOL for days
or at best lazing
wistfully in a field
of brown summer grass
and fifty year old squat
palm trees sprinkled sparse
like minimalist art
at canyon’s broad bottom,
far beyond reach
of this pen
this paper
this man’s mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment