motif no. 17

Confronting a blank page is like
being jostled, objecting, from a dream
in which you’d far prefer to reside
because then you’d be unconcerned
with what has happened to the words
scattered around on the kitchen floor
like errant cupcake sprinkles,
waiting for the vacuum to materialize
and force an unexpected plot twist.
Such dreams never make any sense
except for their unflinching clarity in
laying bare the impact of misplaced words.

Poem #17 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans.