by Maureen Buchanan Jones
Sometimes you write things
you don’t want to.
You want your pen to move
in a different direction, but
you don’t have the energy,
or the focus, or the strength
of character to keep it in its
track, so you let it loose,
say Don’t go far in a half-hearted
voice and watch the pen
run off into the under-growth
and start scratching. You
know something is going
to get dug up. Something
you’ll want to get off
your hands later, something
that has hot, red eyes.
But it’s too late, ink is
getting spilled.
(from blessed are the menial chores)
