You feel  like a promise.

So you step up to the table

where  you face

instead

a wall in your

forehead

and

every impulse buried

under a carpet of snow.

And

still ,

there is a need that works

like a constipated machine.

After a while

You think, well, nothing.

Maybe this morning it all went swirling

down the drain like hula hoops.

And you panic.

In time,

Words  do come, in fact

pile up like the newspaper

Saying nearly nothing.

It is getting dark by then.

The afternoon is tired.

It’s winter, remember.

There are days like this

There are days like this,

Lots of them.