I caught its movement out of the corner
of my eye while overhauling an old poem
in the middle of the night. Its slow
and measured stride spoke of purpose
and determination. With mounting curiosity,
I watched it trek across the pages of my work
until it stopped, as though to make a mental note,
no more impressed with what was written
than with my presence in its life. From where
in the poem my critic crawled I could not tell,
which left no better option than to plug
my nose, clear the desk, and start again.
By Chris Basher (also writing as P. D. Kline), Pea Soup, p. 64. 2024.
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