Opening the Box

 

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The box sits menacingly in the upper right quadrant—

anywhere else it would seem innocent.

The word “un-finished” scrolls beneath it, “finished“ with the box

and “un-“ alone upper left negative.

This idea is easier to draw than to verbalize,

            but I’m a writer so I try.  I try.

Until cramped pen fingers ache and typing digits say “no.”

            An added distraction is losing notes.

 

Pour yourself a cuppa.  What if you aren’t a writer?

            You’ll continue to box the unfinished.

Boxes and boxes of unfinished, like packets of seeds,

            planted, partly grown, forgotten, boxed up—

weigh you down, block the end of the tunnel, where light might shine

            if you were willing to flush them away.

How much lighter would you be if nothing waited for you,

            and you could play with other retirees?

 

Ask the questions of being:  Why write?  Why read?  Why return?

            Why work?  Why play?  Why anything at all?

Wait for answers.  Imagine having no purpose at all.

            How bad could that be?  Worse than pretending?

I keep thinking I’m a writer to be busy, to have

a reason for leaving the room, unmoored.

Writing is a safe place to hide, but not forevermore.

            A place to seem anchored.  A place to let go.

 

Like in theatre, an empty stage waits for a performance—

            like a person floating waits for ripples.

What is it that would disappear if you didn’t write it?

            What is the entrance and the first ripple?

Wait for it, wait for it—the purpose action will expose—

            write for it, reach for it, sketch it quickly.

I try.  I try.  I am a box to empty, sitting in

            the lower left negative, saying “yes.” 

             

 My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2023 Susan L. Chast