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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