Wednesday, July 11, 2007

In the Remaining Space

For my creative writing class. The professor didn't like it, though.

On a pristine page, a poem was written
  In truth, half-a-poem, just the beginning
For though the words were apt and the lines tight
  And the metaphors deep and beguiling
For though it wore mood and meter and rhyme
  Its author clearly groped for an ending

Desperate for words, with nothing more to write
  The author a terrible blankness faced
Thus the hand, unable to continue
  Ripped the page from its rings with thoughtless haste
And curled the leaf into a little ball

(In the remaining space, what might still have been written?
 a friend's telephone number?
  a corny love letter?
   a marriage proposal rehearsed?
    a flight schedule?
     a hotel's address?
      a man's shoe size?
       a doctor's appointment?
        a child's doodle?
         a treasure map?
          a school assignment?

Or even, perhaps, the start of another poem

Alas, the hand that wrote
  is no longer there)

  The world cries out: what a waste! what a waste!

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