sitting at the edge of the world,

waiting for the fall,

yet nothing makes it comes,

not even the several hundred nudges

for it all to plunge

cold, wandering and toothless

without any liquids for miles around,

as meandering dilettantes and messiahs

pull and tug in discussions of who is best and who is greater,

when the answer to everything in life is Bo Jackson

writing poetry while driving is a lot easier

when you don’t pay attention to the road

and you use autocorrect for non-monosyllabic words,

and drafting edits are for red lights

and after that inevitable fender bender that comes

when trying to remember whether I need to turn right here

or come up with a clever metaphor

Fred Aiken Writing