The Static Pen

He looked down at the cold,
grey stone.  This is what he
saw--white paper, eight and
one half by eleven inches, a
rectangular thinness born of
an old oak, perhaps, an oak
that gave its all.

Feet in concrete, immobile,
stuck.  Asleep on a frigid
plain, one snowy January,
Netherlands, galactic void
of Hubble deep field.

Isolated, deserted, sinking
in quicksand.  Stilled in the
ebon emptiness, handcuffed
on an island far away.


16 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
1-21-16