Too Busy: A Poem

I wanted to write with lightning bolts from the darkest clouds; ink ran dry.

I desired to blaze the boldest trail in the thickest snags; clippers are rusty.

I craved an exotic mushroom dish in uptown Manhattan; stuck in an elevator.

I want to twirl my dress in the air with outstretched arms and eyes skyward. Then I will fall down from the world’s spin and get grass stains on my underpants.


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