empty page

in front of me is a palette

an easel, a board

whatever I get.

I look at its albinish grin

of dry beginnings

of crushed up sin.

I wonder how it is so blank

formed so little

low in rank.

I think about what it could be

the wondrous thoughts

possibilities.

after all, as a human, I have to say

it is quite hard for us to gauge

the potential of an empty page.

it could have rues and tales of war

it could have purple dinosaurs

it could speak of the final days

of Santa Claus, or workers’ pays

I see it as a man in suit

or a casual car pursuit

it could be a broken tape recorder

repeating “I love you” over and over

behind its walls is a little girl

quietly working against her will

with a tiny teddy bear in hand

wishing she could break the band

a man named Terrence L. Ferris

does he exist?

no! Not by a bit.

but he waits there behind the cold hard ice

of the piece of paper before my eyes.

and so I type

I scribble

I write

for the good of all that’s ever been right.

I type for Santa

and a broken love story

I write for the girl

so she may not worry.

I see myself scribbling

for Terrence L. Ferris

who himself put on a tux

and drove so not to perish.

I look upon this empty screen

this white palette

this unwritten scene. . .

I look at it all and close my eyes

to see my characters’ alibis.

and maybe soon I’ll get to gauge

the potential of an empty page.