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where is my muse? (more than a sonnet)
by Angela Thomasi wish that the concrete was stronger,
that the pipes had not given way after
so many years holding the faucet
and all of that hot water. a plumber
would not roll out of bed early
and me into mine, when i wanted
to be in his, in order to inspect
something broken. there was going
to be a movie and a soft hand
running along the raised edges
of my newly inked tattoo, fingers
twined around strands of barely
salt and pepper hair. when i walked
in the door, the windows were open
too wide, the air too cold, too fresh,
the breath of leaves to apparent. 10/30/2010 Posted on 10/30/2010
Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas
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