Write Where I Stand
The strings and whisker whiskey baritone sound off where the on button begins where my next line truly ends. I watch my self split into editor and draft animal: a mule hitched to the wagon full of gold stars standing dancing while human drinks through dusty double door a few steps up. I am standing here, commanding nothing (when I can help it) connecting clauses beyond their copper conductive capability, the same smithy consulted as she who shod that mule for tap and run and pull, comfortable giving comfort to we whose feet cannot help but move.