20131217.0700

There is annoyance
Even for those who write
Whose work is often thought not work
Whose lives are thought to be filled with ease

There are times
The words will not come
The Muse is far away
On Oreb or on Sinai
And not many write
Amid the rocks
Without solid walls surrounding them
Since hillsides and mountaintops are windy
And it is hard to put a pen to a page that is flying away

Then there are others
When an error has slipped through reading
Before the piece is allowed out into the world
But it shows up later
And it stands out
A white shirttail sticking through the open zipper of dark pants

Sometimes it can be tucked in swiftly and without comment.
Other times
An hour goes by
Filled of speaking to people whose eyes are at crotch level

The latter seems more frequent.