It is clearer.
A pair of cruddy working shoes
By a metal door-
I am heavy – Off comes the day!
Costume. Name plate.
Used up words and unused love.
This old basket holds it well.
See my dear friends!
Pages bonded and lined up in rows.
But some escape
And find themselves lying quietly
in unexpected places.
My heart longs to stack them.
Up against the door.
For this: A final barricade.
A pen. A sharp pencil.
Loose inked Paper.
I muse, I write, I bleed.
Music plays a serenade –
An ode to pages gone missing.
Mortar, life’s blood, tears
Hold paper bindings against the door –
Lay down my trowel. Sleep.
Shelley Rae Bell
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