In Desperate Need of Thickening

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IN DESPERATE NEED OF THICKENING


The printer whispers out its best

rendition of the text. 

It is the draft of a poem 

I have written. The ink is thin, 

seen only held beneath the light.

My wife says we are out 

of cartridges, shelved somewhere

in a store from another 

dimension. And did I mention 

the steady evening rain? 

This road of ours is a night-drive

on bald tires, fueled by

an imagined poem so thick

it rights itself and dances off the page.


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