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i spread sugar across the kitchen table
and use my index finger to start from
deep scratch, penetrating it's layer to
the smooth wooden surface below

writing characters into gritty detail
within it's fine grainy media, i finish
each line without any practical means
to re-work the structure

they are my sweet licks by finger tips,
rows of tasty words that lay bare upon
a temporary tablet— in a raw form
which will soon be swept into a dust pan

just a musing on a mess at a place
meant for dining, i remove my
thoughts with a hand held brush—

yet traces of its ghost now linger
in a fragile film awaiting your
consumption...


s jones
2008-2021


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