There’s something living in these lines…

A steamy mug of dark coffee—or five—
nursed between soft palms as the night becomes
the morning. Lines begin to come alive.
They dance a reel or two and twiddle thumbs
for their audience is dull and drowsing.
Together in a mass of curves and limbs
thrusting out at all angles,  harboring
resentment in the hours dark and dim,
they protest in anger: “We are not one,
but many—individuals!” they cry.
“Don’t let us blur, with your weary vision,
into a moody mess of black and white.”
Stare at the sheet in hand, eyes full of tears,
blink til it fades to black and disappears.

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