Just words
on my page,
slinky and sly,
avoiding my eye,
they know;
oh, they know
it's no good,
no good use,
to settle,
to hide,
I wonder if I
control my fingers
at all,
minds of their own,
walking and wandering
across the lone desert
of 8x10:
Every writer knows my song,
so jump in, please,
sing along.
Is that really so wrong?

It's nothing but my excuse,
my device,
I'm wondering why I'm
riding this high
at all;
my sweet, lonely,
extending my lost
lover's goodbye.