January 17, 2008


The antique clock
chimes past her breakfast
of pancakes, Canadian bacon
and lunch of Caesar salad

The page is still blank
blank as a poker player
as the still air cuts her
like a machete
deeply wounding her psyche

The silence washes over her
searing her senses
like drizzled olive oil
over wild salmon

As the chiming clock sings six
she savors spinach, asparagus
salad and sea bass

When the clock chimes seven
her fingers fly to heaven
Her computer is alive
with words, words, words
toppling over each other,
expanding and bursting
into lines, stanzas, pages
crafting into free verse,
sestinas, villanelles
as she writes into the night
sipping Red Zinger tea.

—Juanita Torrence-Thompson

Posted by dwaber at January 17, 2008 05:12 PM