"But I am at the desk upstairs, writing.
And the garden is here outside my window,
filled with fellow citizens sipping lattes
and driving Toyotas.
and I am trying
to become dangerous."
I face a wall trying
to pluck words
from my head
from my head
to feather a poem.
No, it’s not a
metaphor,
or grand drama of
a poet.
The only place a desk
will fit in my bedroom
is a claustrophobic corner
of green walls.
Frustration is a sneaky bitch.
She directs me to a book
written by a favorite poet,
and reminds me I’m surrounded
by the color of envy.
Real Toads ~ Instructions For Living a Life
