The day is so early

I haven’t yet hatches a poem

to let the deep yellow yolk

drip over my page.

Instead I pour waves of hot

caffeine over my tongue,

sweet cream lingers.

The tiny white oval at the top of my paper cup

delivering salvation with every sip.

Hoping that words find their way through my hand

I stare at the parallel blue lines

interjected by a bold vertical pink

I am a prisoner to the blank spaces between them,

waiting for freedom found

in the flowing ink of a ballpoint pen.


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