TASK @ HAND

Oh, the Zen of it:
empty boxes piled high
waiting to be filled

Fireflies at dawn
the stars are finally gone
light comes from within

Release me, Brooklyn
from the skin I’ve grown
but still take me in

An epiphany
can be a slip of paper
hanging from your fridge

How small a corner
as a hurricane rages
two crickets still chirp

The night is alive
A cicada symphony
cut with speeding cars

Lightening flashes through
burns a wild, erratic fuse
the stars are scrubbed clean

I should walk a mile
on another man’s egg shells
before I can crack

If I drew a blank
then how could it still be blank?
I got nothing here