I'm always encouraged when I hear of an outstanding writer's frustration with the necessity of sitting at the desk each day.
I'd like to be a spirit that glides--
my toes floating inches above
the sidewalk, my spirit rippling
in and out of me like a girl's
summer dress around her skin
in the breeze.
But, of course, it always comes
back to sucking it back in, no dress
but a wet plastic bag against skin, and
holding it steady within for a moment
while the fingers chomp at the keys.