Writing Exercises
The wheel cannot willfully–
not new as still-nude dawn–
be invented every day.
Still we work our brains,
poetry our chin-up bar,
re-wrought words our reps.
Expecting (regularly) Inspiration–
she, gartered, glad-handing,
as we, gripping pens, grapple.
Whips away, stockings running;
our words whistle after,
wheezing poetic (at least in part).
We moon till next dawn dawns,
but this time wisps of sibilance
blinker pink and blue.
Thumping rhythmically below,
a flat–tired, but still rolling–
yet another poem.


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