Words On the
Weekend
My open train-car room accelerates,
on weekends, after-hours.
Words pulled at my bedside,
scratched ant legs into
my fingertips and propelled me
to open and vomit every
nook and cranny of bothersome things
into plastic keys.
I have no commas to grapple,
yet my head weaves its way into passenger
traffic, feeding off any imagery roadkill left, if any.
Whether comma bits scrawled,
or expired coffee grounds,
fancy any poison,
as long as the words
continue to spill.
Young Woman Writing -- Pierre Bonnard
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