It's about becoming, and how I wish
I could engage you.  As you sit with head
tilted toward a window that isn't there.

I know there are mountains of ink, a fabric
of living, waiting behind your pensive
fingertips.  But you only tap them.

They move across a small screen, your open
ears shut against a Bradbury-like thimble wasp

No crying out I will muster
seems to usurp the sounds of thrumming
drumbeat you set your pace to.

This is your story, woven from where
you're from, and I'm inviting you to unleash
it like a holy flood.

Instead, your paper is two weeks late,
the tale untold still.

Tennessee. Check out my blog at