Even after all the years of doing it
After all of them I’ve seen before
Again and again and again
I still quail to see an empty page before me
Waiting for me to fill it with the work of my pen
Leave traces of myself behind in ropy trails
I hope to see outlast me

I lift the pen
Put my fingers to the keys
Trying to open the inner taps
And they sometimes flow freely
But just as often
I have to work the pump for a while
Before anything will flow
And even then
It’s often silty
Not the best tasting drink

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