I tap my pencil on a notebook, hoping
shards of answers will fall out. Even
if I have to fit them together like
a jigsaw puzzle, at least I'll know I have
all of the parts. I'm missing thoughts that seep
through drains inside my brain. They clog like chunks
of mucus hiding deep inside my throat,
the kind of sick you cannot feel until
you lie to rest at night and choke on phlegm.
I see you chewing on your pen and wonder
if you're doing the same -- hoping you
will swallow answers, ingest the right words to say.