Soft as an oil crayon
slide across the curve of your forehead.
Do not use for cooking
baking or basting.
Fresh-scented girl,
name your stick
and wish it well.
Light the tip of your butter
with flame from a rusted gas stove
…………..inhale the memory of popcorn in a pan,
thread-bare movie house carpet
roaming fingers not quite long
enough to wrap a steering wheel
…………..curl around
a bottle of beer.
Lick sweet and salty
from lips you can not see.
Straighten your shirt
(you do not wear skirts)
Face the mirror once again.
Soft as an oil crayon
slide beneath the curve of your chin.
***************************************************
Here’s the thing about writing every day, about coming to the page no matter if you feel uninspired, rushed, tired, un-caffeinated: something will emerge. It might not be great. It might not make sense. It might not be good until you work with it for days/weeks/months, until you combine it with another poem, or until you leave it on the altar of “well, at least I tried,” and move on.
But you have a bunch of words in the shape of a poem, and that’s progress, baby! Poem-gress!
jillypoet 