Here
tucked away
in the far, back corner of the house
where I sit
and write
and stare endlessly at blank pages
the screen door
that opens to the back yard
has fallen into disrepair.
Just outside the door
in the kidney shaped garden
where nothing grows
the family of Jackrabbits that lives under the deck
watches me through the screen
and it’s more than just a little disconcerting
to know the Jackrabbits are laughing at me
the way Jackrabbits do
when writers can’t write,
despite glorious inspiration
from a broken door
or a crystalline morning
in the last days of August
when the sun is liquid and orange
dissected into mad shards of crazy light
by a mottled screen
in an aging door
in the quietest corner of the house.
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