11 Pound Novel

11 Pound Novel

in exchange for a peek

at my 11 pound novel

my free-wheeling fiction

& a stack of sepia-toned

still-lifes as prospective

cover art

a rugged tattooed dingbat

sat at my kitchen table to

strum some of the sweetest

strings devoid of the usual

seedy yawps

zigzagged whops of space

prog & sudden swing jazz

he plays for the blacklisted

& alcoholics in dingy dive

bars

it was enough to

make my head spin ‘round

that I near forgot to breathe

            dingbat thumbed his

nose at my chapters as long

as one line of dialogue but

left w/ all of my hit-or-miss

metaphors

hidden inside of his guitar

case

            to use in letters to

his exes

***

And here it is, the early morning clacking for my poetry prompt on this dreadfully inclement and fraught Friday. I was grateful to wake up to a note from my bud this morning, to a little something that helps to keep my head on straight while in this personal season of grueling concern for a loved one whose struggle is becoming quite serious, enough to keep me awake most nights.

The prompt was the poem’s title. I had no idea where it would go, I just wrote. Like a morning page. I also think it’s why I enjoy waking up to prompts because it helps to wipe the noodle clean of any nighttime residual upset. I do find when I write on the way to work and fuss over the crossword puzzle in the back of the newspaper my days tend to evolve in a positive vein.

Writing and music, they both save. They save me. All the time.

In propinquity,

Nic