has wobbled onto this page,
the ink staining the spine,
refusing to be confined within
the usual font used these days.
Couplets look for elbow room.
Poke and prod to make it so.
Envy the free-standing line
for hanging out at the corner
or in that darkened alleyway.
This poem is a bridge to nowhere
special, wanting more
than this bleached wood pulp
to explore. A window, perhaps, a door.
What you were looking for.
