I sit old school,
pencil in hand and a grand idea
for a poem or verse and I
nurse this thought thinking of a title.
Words, words, words,
SCRATCH, SCRATCH, ERASE…
No trace of anything I’d written,
thinking, thinking, thinking about drinking…
Sweeping line like an ess curve, a swerve
to the right and back right smack where
the first rhyme should be. I see a place
in my head. Instead I sketch branches
a chance to free this vision, a poor decision
on my part. My heart wanders, it squanders
every viable verb for a series of “V” shaped birds.
Words, words, a box in three dimensions off
to the right of the curve. The swerve. Erase.
SCRITCH, SCRITCH, SCRATCH, Erase…
To many distractions. Factions of my brain gone
on hiatus. This poem/sketch will hate us
in the morning… a tree. A series of evergreen
cravats distant filler… a mill wheel beside the 3-D
box. A cabin… perhaps a writing escape… The image
intoxicates, it waits for words, words. WORDS!
A barren stump, empty branches,
it enhances the landscape. I escape my poetic inklings,
curvy doodles like cooked noodles on the plate…
It’s getting late. I should either sign this or sign off.
Word, word, SCRITCH, SCRATCH, erase…
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016