Caged by her pencil
The poet sits inside,
Tugging on knotted curls and 
Staring at the world she yearns to capture
Through a distorted window pane.
 
Instead of the artist’s unlined canvas
Or the pianist’s musical score,
She writes on forgotten paper napkins,
Tearing through the flimsy layers,
While crossing T’s and swooping G’s.
 
Later, she’ll leave graphite scratch marks
On worn table tops
Instead of nature’s burrs 
On her unravelling boot laces.