Occasionally, I am reminded of
the anachrony of inspiration.
The vaguely humorous plight of
never knowing what will move me
I recall lovers out of order,
process trauma on its own schedule,
bleed ink in undulating stretches
of drought and reckless abandon.
It’s bingo night.
And the fix is far from in.
A volunteer casually rolls the cage
ready to call the rounds as they fall.