Coffeehouse ramblings of
Miles in length
(Of course, the good bits are
All measured in yards
(By his own admission)) and
Something serene in the
Midst of the static and
Something impressive
Within all the wandering and
I certainly can't blame him for
This blank sheet of screen.
She's got all sorts of shit --
The job and the boyfriend
And pets and the children
And money and cars and hot
Weather (or sweaters -- whichever)
And life and the checkbook
(The money, again) and I've got only
This blank sheet of screen.
They've all got all sorts of shit --
Park benches, newspapers,
Misshapen jackets (or sweaters --
Whichever) from Goodwill and
Occasional meals and
Haphazard slumber in
Occasional shelters and
Somehow I'm sitting here staring
And bitching and moaning and
wringing my hands (metaphorically)
And thinking and staring and thinking
And staring and waiting and staring at
This blank sheet of screen,
And suddenly shit seems less... something,
or something.
