Time to Write Again

Poetry
photo by author

Time hangs like
exoskeletons
in amber.

Our sweaters layer like
the rings of trees,
revealing how long
we’ve been waiting.

Events need to happen
to write poems about them.

Something more than
making waffles every morning
how the tomatoes lasted
well into November this year
the way we watch a film noir
from 7-9 am each Sunday
waiting for the football
games to begin.

We are relying on
a new trapeze of trust
to hold us
learning how to balance
on a high wire
with no end in sight.

The false floor falls out and
mountains of sand
form dunes beneath us
it is slow going
either up or down
our shoes fill with grains
and feet sink ankle-deep
with every step.

From deep inside the line she said
this is not a poem
and so I stop, but still

pissed off because, you know,
Bukowski never edited
his shit.