Mustard Seeds

Editor back-issues, Janet Buck, poetry

I question the empty page
like a moldy slice of bread —
it might have been a decent meal
in someone else’s hands.
The clock records a passing hour.
Still no verse worth printing out.
A filthy kitchen floor
sticks to my shoes
like an uttered lie —
I flip through yesterday’s mail,
stacking bills in heavy bricks,
thinking I’m an ad for grief,
ought to get different life
that dwells upon a butterfly.

Our puppy slams the keyboard tray,
pulls at my socks with rollicking teeth.
Her tail wags east then west —
pointing out with clarity the aching light
I’m missing in this clouded room —

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