leftovers

This is a has-been.

Some inordinate

Computer written leftovers.

 

Pathetic, really

When you recall how

on the very same day

I ran my fingers

across the screen

pretending that this was Braille

and if I couldn’t stand up

the poem could.

(What else? Where else can I write now that I know for sure how much a Waterman costs? Unless you’ve been to Paris, of course.)

 

The very same day

You were lying down

to look at the ceiling

imagining your

stoic circles and ellipses

raining down heavily.

So I thought I’d ask

whether you needed

help

with distending

your grungy little story-plots?

Smile.

(While your over-pumped muscles fail to straighten out the lines in your head, lines you have read, someday, somewhere)

 

yes, I trail my fingers

on the monitor

 

the other hand

uncurling its fingers
and balloons

escape.

 

(Pathetic, really, even though we knew the rules of the game. Now, you cry cheater.)