• I’ve lost it. I spilled it all over the ground and the dry earth soaked it up, leaving only a few drops in my pitiful bowl. No; it wasn’t overabundance or careless gluttony--it was the simple, patient process of bread going stale, cereal expiring quietly on the shelf.

    ring around the rosy

    There is still substance--it just feels old: like sour grapes and spoiled milk, scenting the air. I carry this loss about me like jealous perfume and people point among themselves: There she goes--she carries the taint of words, the whiff of new paper. I used to love its promise. But I’ve lost it, I say, too tired to cry or scream, too tired to wash away the ink stains on my fingers.

    a pocket full of posies

    I sit on the ground and watch as, miles away, thunder clouds rain inspiration and relief on others; they raise their heads in amazed disbelief, watching ink pour out of their fingers. They walk past with their leather bound notebooks, glancing at me in pity as I close up shop. I walk through the streets, tracing words in the air like someone who still believes in the thought of rescue. The letters disappear, and I see dust motes where I once saw sunlight. I sit and wait for the drought to be over.

    ashes, ashes, we all fall down