Emblem of me
wordless, cracked and flat
a lot of weedy concrete
under my writer’s hat.
Sometimes I must bow
to the gods of Bland and Bare
and admit I’m dry and empty
there’s just nothing there.
I’m not the only would-be
to plummet down this linn
but I’m the only one sitting here
in this writer’s skin.
So I guess it’s up to me
to find some fertile ground
some fuel
renewal
to get myself re-wound.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Connections