Cigarette in hand <br />she blows ash <br />off the page, sends <br />blue/grey smoke signals. <br /> <br />Her concertinaed frown <br />sets off lines <br />on her forehead <br />waves of thought crash <br />on the shore of her mind. <br /> <br />Like conception <br />few ideas seep through, <br />the flagella <br />of determined, pushy thought <br />comes right in. <br /> <br />She smiles, “That’s it! ” <br />looking like wise beauty <br />and I gotta get some. <br /> <br />The lines leave her face <br />and curl her hair <br />with kinetic energy <br />then off to sculpt Rodin’s Thinker <br />in another writer. <br /> <br />Thinking is thirsty work, <br />that’s why <br />she writes at the bar, <br />glass of red nearby, <br />she thinks_ <br />of everything.<br /><br />Pete Dowe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writer-the/
