A verb gets in the way
of an overflowing laundry basket,
sending lines to hang out dry.
Words sputter along with the tadka
in a hastily put-together dinner.
Pencil tucked in the knot at the nape of the neck,
the one word that this poem was waiting
for disappears
in a quagmire of grey peeking
from a month-overdue burgundy, tone, 3.
Finally, when the cat has gone to bed,
the dog fed,
family, all tucked in,
the poem begins
anew.
-30-
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