A quick poem.
I begin to formulate, forming a string of thoughts
I put together a sentence I'm fond of.
I ponder, smile and then light the thought on fire.
The string, now more of a fuse, consumed by the flame, shortens
The string burns getting closer to the bomb, my poem, the sweater from which my thought was pulled.
I close my eyes and cover my face expecting a bang.
I flinch and must look utterly insane for there is no bang, no pop, no explosion.
Nothing.
I must have been mistaken, like I am now, as I sit striving to unravel a sweater by only staring.