Often when I’ve given myself fully to the day
I have nothing to offer the page.
The page, blank and naked, unashamedly
screams, Feed me! feed my lines with words
of praise for yourself. You’ll be doing us
both a favor.
The page can’t really speak but if it could
it would tell me of its loneliness sitting on
my printer waiting for me to come
home & give it some attention.
If it could sit up, it would beg
mercilessly to be fed a snack, even,
preferably a Thanksgiving repast
with all the “trimmings”.
Patient as it is, loyal to no one else
like me, I don’t know what to say
often when we meet at night
after dark like this.
The best I can do is empty my
head onto an open & willing
page until it’s filled or I am
So far neither has happened
yet I feel I’ve fed all that
can legibly be handled
by one page in one night/
morning. It’s late but
I’m writing anyway. If you’re
hungry, you’re hungry.