got this poem,
already typed up and
ready to roar and ravish,
and it's sititin' there -
typed up -
two blocks in
(name a cardinal direction).
did i mention it's warmer here
than where i was? twenty degrees
above freezin'. warmer.
yeah, well, let's digress back
to this poem mention'd,
it's sittin', just waitin' for
a chance to shine. for
a chance to be express'd,
whatever that may mean.
and i type with blunt'd fingertips,
goin' back to re-dot Is and
removin' Gs, Ds, and random vowels -
realizin', this poem was writ when
absent the true poem. and
i hear the snow falling,
i hear the poem wallowing,
i hear the silence of creation.
