ephemera

these willow wisps

phantasms

thoughts

that spin out

& if

there is no pen handy

paper to place

the cat comes in

she calls from another room

the phone rings to sell me shit

a great song comes on the radio

salesman banging at the door

or just plain self distraction

looking out the window

wondering on ifs buts

these poems

vehicles for ideas

have gone

& they may or not

ever

come up for air

once more

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