Shooting Blanks

Too lazy am I for prose …

poetry’s what goes on the

empty document that

mocks my lack of imagination.

The glaring white square

scoffs and calls me a sprinter.

You can’t handle a marathon.

I have a notion,

an inkling,

a kernel of thought.

I tap with two fingers

and the page can barely

contain itself.

You call that a poem??

Word document casts

a pale blue light

across my face.

I wish you could see yourself .

It’s not your best side.

 

I power down

smug in the knowledge

that I can silence it.

I pull a sheet of paper

from the printer,

and a pen from the bowl.

I draw boxes ... spirals ... arrows.

The paper scoffs.

You think if you touch me

the words will come?

It will take more than doodling on me

to make them come, you word whore…

The pen whispers

stroke me.

I rip the 8 by 11 sheet in half-

then quarters,

I crumple balls

for the cats to chase.

I have the last laugh.

But the  balls sneer up at me

from the terrazzo

like a body-less dwarves. 

The pen laughs

maniacally and spits

black ink in my lap.