I should be writing,
but from where I’m sitting I can see the breeze through flicks of a pirate flag, shadow cast and bearing homeward bound in my window.
I can reach out and touch my tobacco,
feeling,
rolling,
pausing,
licking,
lighting,
smoking.
I am inhaling /exhaling
and only typing in between bursts of stillness, my mind lost and trailing through the room, **** n’ type, mumbling crazy talk under my breath as I scribe.
Slowly
I should be in my head, finding a nest,
a bed, of words and meaning
conscience streaming.
No focus when I can see the tree’s, peeks of bark and pied green
No inspiration beyond that which I can see with my eyes.
Ash, I am burned out like the smoke in my hand.