I've worked in the building trades most of my life: carpenter, plumber, electrician. Also a writer all my life, published a bunch of books, never hit it big. Built my house under redwoods on a mountainside, raised a family, still living with the same woman these fifty years, play with the grandkids. That's a career and it continues yet. joecottonwood.com
Author's Note: I don’t believe in Writer’s Block (this month’s theme) but I do believe in the Muse, or her absence. She’s sensitive, shy, and I have a blundering tendency to say something that spooks her. Fortunately Muse has a sister known as Buxom Belle. Buxom Belle carries a rolling pin. She will brook no excuses. She will demand that you sit your ass in that chair with your fingers on the keyboard. The one thing Buxom Belle cannot do is give you words. As writers, we are compelled by one, inspired by the other. Both are essential.
Faint gray prints of a woman’s feet
mark the asphalt of my street.
Full arch, ten toes
the trail goes,
halting at my front door, the potted fern.
I am alone.
But apparently not.
Barefoot lady, are you here?
Do your fingers tap each lettered key?
Do you dance? Dance with me?
My dogs sleep, curled, sensing nobody.
I sense that you are playful,
a warm wind,
Have we met before? Was I crude?
Your spirit grips me. Let’s be nude!
Whisper metaphor to my ear
while I unhook your pink brassiere.
© 2017 Joe Cottonwood
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