sketchy
This poem (or non-poem) I sort of forced into existence by keeping my pen moving. Sometimes that’s all a writer can do.
No Poem
I tried to write a poem
as I looked out the glass walls
at the dormant yellow grasses,
the empty tables,
and frozen pond,
but nothing would come out. My pen
didn’t move. People
in stocking caps passed by, a garbage truck,
the gentle breeze blowing across
the branches of leafless trees.
One small patch of blue
in the cloud-filled sky
hovered overhead—a happy hole
leading to the next world.
J. Thomas Burke 