no middle in sight

i didnt do
any writing today
been chewing over
a plot point
and find myself
unable to make
the intuitive leap
i already wrote
the beginning
i know the ending
but the sticky wicket
in the center
is a mystery

no matter how
i gnaw at the bone
the marrow
remains elusive
most likely this
is the reason why
when people ask
what kind of writer i am
i answer simply
sheepishly
i’m a poet
and these stories
are all secondary

then they look
mildly embarrassed
and i can see
they are silently
praying i dont
ask them to read any
i dont get upset
hell, i never read any
of the trash
i churn out
wouldnt want to
put that kind of
pressure on a stranger

just two ends
unable to find
a middle to
bring them together
broken verse and
incoherent meanderings
the last swig of
red wine in the bottle
a half smoked pack
of lucky strikes
and three matches in
a worn book advertising
a closed down strip club

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