Staring at a blank screen or page
with either a computer in my lap
or a book sitting open and holding
one of my precious pens.

Nothing to say comes out of me,
out of my hands or mouth
or out of a fog in my head, which
I curse, not for the first time.

Close my eyes? Capital thought.
Nothing inside, though. Look out
the window? It’s still dark.
I’d have to be a bat to be inspired.

Man oh man — could I be a bat? I shake
at the thought; ever seen one up close?
Ugly as sinners, though not to each other;
for each other they show the beauty, yes.

I have an old song on repeat in me
and all it keeps saying is, “…me, honey,
I’m pretending…” I know who did it
but I don’t dare say it. It’s mine now, anyway.

Is this what was intended for me?
I pictured myself elsewhere at this age.
Honestly, I never expected to get here.
Never expected a longing to be a bat

but I am longing for it. Desiring bat-hood,
swooping, diving, in a crowded field of millions
of beauties like me, all of us stunned by what we are.
None of us staring at a screen or a page,

not one of us happy or unhappy at what were are.
Unlike me — closed eyes; opened eyes; keyboard
or paper before me; memory lonely
in my head. Flying solo. Flapping madly.

Don’t mind me.
Pay me no mind.
Me, honey?
I’m pretending.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T