Working blue
my fingers
need a home A warm
place to breathe and roam
They trampoline over coal
domes combing letters to grow
a tome of groan or love or poems
to bemoan (oh, woe is me) or
some other overblown
droning on and on
and on
and Oh,
I don’t know . . .
what else I really
can do.
Written for Poetic Aside’s Wednesday Poetry Prompts
Write a poem about work.
Writing On The Sun 