Three pages behind,
so I look to find
any observation
that will stir
a poetic line;

Like white flowers
on a metal wire
that look like
a metallic vine.

Three pages I seek,
so I listen to
whatever will speak
to my poetic sense,

I hear lots of clicks
as I drive by on
the highway,
then a musical beat
that I cannot place
because it is muffled
and lacks any base.
I pop the top
of my center console
to see a strange glow
as my cellphone
tries to wake me up.

Three pages that I yearn to complete
but I have no comprehension
of what strangers smell,
so I am only left to write about
what I feel.

I slide my hand up and down
searching soft sore spots,
looking to see if they
are too cold or hot
and flinching when
I come across a bruise.

Three pages to complete
it’s the deadline I set for me
every month I try to write
thirty pages of poetry.
Now I only need two
to get up to what is due
this far in the month.