Saturday morning; a poet’s dawning

Scratching, scraping, raw
pencil on rough, recycled paper
causing her to stir

turning groggily my way
she half smiles, partly sneers,
mumbles, rolls her eyes,
then back the other way

she thinks I am writing another
paean to some ancient love
or other stray reminisce,
hoping in her bleariness it is
not some snappy, sappy ode to her

Ahh, sometimes it is.

Other mornings I awake
stretching my creative muscles
aerobic pencil lurching across
paper workout pad, getting out the
kinks in birds, pine trees, lakes, youth

philosophic-junk adrenaline pushes me
profound lactic acid gibberish flows

I am propped up on my pillow
conjuring appropriate metaphors for the
sound of graphite eloquently pirouetting
across lined wood pulp.


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