I leave the warm room,
dough dried to a pleasing rime on my hands.
The street is slick and dark
the rain the distant clack of a typewriter pool.
Past the empty Pilvax
(a waiter hunched forlorn)
and the police tape, cast into mud.
A grey dog approaches, ears pinned back.
edging past red-painted MURDR
his tongue lolls, he smiles and shows his teeth.
Up the stairs, two-at-a-time.
The light is on.
I must have left it on.
Why aren't you a published poet yet?
ReplyDeleteThanks for the unwarranted vote of confidence, Kathryn!
ReplyDeleteAn unhappy admixture of sloth, aeon-bothering "writer's" block and a tenuous understanding of what constitutes poetry (primarily).