where the writers are

At first, it's got no manners,
eats with its fingers, slurps the soup,

kisses with too much tongue.
It thumbs through my foolscap

of false starts: the moon and both Dippers
wheeling through long red slashes,

a braid of Xs marking a map to nowhere.
It rolls its eyes and lies down

with a cool cloth on its forehead.
All night, imposters ring the doorbell,

darting away like fickle romeos.
I answer each call and do not notice

when inspiration leaves. It returns,
Sunday hat in hands. Show me some ID I say.  I am your ambulance, it replies.
And you are my car wreck.

2 Comment count
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Speak to me

Surly not "too much tongue" but just misguided enthusiasm.

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Prolly. ; )

Cheryl Snell www.shivasarms.blogspot.com