Rough Drafts

The door’s off its hinges and a mean breeze
toys with the crumpled notes on the floor.
A plastic bottle reading Sierra Spring
rolls across the table, but it’s empty—

she used the last water to wash her
dirty handkerchiefs and socks. It leaves marks
in the dust like the tracks of a hockey puck
caroming off the walls of the rink

like her thoughts off the inside of her skull.
The room is so full of unreadable heiroglyphs
she can’t find anything to write. Unhinged,

empty, dressed in ironic labels, she strikes
a sad note. And the wind keeps on with its
unending paper chase. It’s a rough draft.

--for Poefusion

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