By Barry Wallenstein

He says – to whom I won’t tell –
it’s a tick past midnight,
not enough time now to read,
not enough hours ever
in a day.
He speaks that way
and stumbles into an iamb,
curses in spondees – unable to finish a verse
or worse, he falls silent

Blocked in his writerly stride –
excuses abound:
murder in far corners
virtual or leaking blood,
nations imploding or exploding,
the creatures left on land
thriving on the chaos
and still, he can’t hold the rhythm
to frame it or sculpt the script.

A boy in the schoolyard
just yards from the others,
is an isolated entity
sitting on a standard metal chair
aware or half-aware
of the chances he missed
and especially those he’s grabbed
but never fully embraced.

As a grown up
he holds a talking pen
in love with its ink.
He begins “I’m on to something,
there’s a stretch of time
in the minute just ahead
filled with images
that came at no cost,
and some nights they dance.