With a Flowing Hand
It’s time to write of unnecessary things,
to imagine alternative endings to journeys not taken.
It’s time to write of bits of string,
one small fake discolored Swiss Army knife,
a lucky pebble that has brought me nothing but its own
preordained boredom.
However, string, knife, and stone
have had nothing good to say about me for years.
I could write of more back-of-the-draw stuff,
or redraw the landscape of my youth
snipping and pasting-in a cast of characters
that never existed,
for it is still true that every tale
needs to be repainted from time to time.
For the time being, I am these hands
wrapped around a muggy mug of coffee,
these thoughts scrimshawed
upon its unwashed rim.
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