Six minutes until
The chance to write
A sloppy half formed
Sort of a first draft poem
Leaves. The door opens
And shuts. Squeaks, perhaps.
Upon closing that slightly-
Like-a-burp sound, says
“Air squeezed out of
the poetry writing day.
It is done and so are you.
Pish-posh. Fineeto, however
It is spelled, it means done.
Too bad. Four minutes.
Chances are almost…
See more progress on: write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during May 2010
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