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Writing
I pick up my pen
I set out to write
Nothing comes out
Not the birds nor the bees
Not the busy streets
Not the poor boy begging for alms
If my pen does not comply
it is not entirely my fault
Maybe it is just not inspired
Maybe it is looking for a partner pen
A companion whose ink is red or white
Maybe today my pen does not want to be alone
Would I write with both hands at the same time
Write in English and another tongue
until the words meet right in the middle of my journal
right at its spine
as the right pen kisses the tip of the left
red ink mingling with black
making love on top of the page
before I sign my name
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