Trying to Write

I am sitting,  trying to write

a poem but it appears the gears

that turn the world have overheated


or the currency I have

presented is counterfeit. So

I walk out of my apartment


run into an economist

on the elevator Up. She

looks at me and says “ It’s the


invisible hand, of providence.”

I get off the Up elevator

get on the Down elevator


and walk out into the ink

spilled night  where I eye a dog; we

sit for awhile, her and I


looking out to sea, and I tell

her all about you.


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