April 18: Landscape

Landscape

The clock reads only
12:31 on a wispy Sunday afternoon.
I snuggle under a chocolate
blanket, fleeced, weave
warm, yet my hands
are chilled. I struggle
to write, hand cramped, despite
the day's generous hours.

The TV is on, me hoping
for a word that will warm
my hands with inspiration.
I touch my pen
to my cheek, and find it cold
too. Zakaria speaks of Gaddafi,
the support he receives, the surprise!
shock of those who lean to
the dark. Capitalism
is found in piracy again,
a pirate handbook they have,
words they have.
My lids weigh heavily,
the fuzzy llama on the sofa is looking
away. I turn the page
and hear Zakaria say
"Come back soon."