The Blink

The cursor is a pulse in a very small room,

a white vertical line on a sea of gray.

It’s been four months since I tried to resume

the story I started and then threw away.

I open the file and the sentences wait,

three little rows of a bridge to nowhere.

I’ve got the setting, the time, and the date,

but the rest of the page is just heavy with air.

It’s a rhythmic ticking, a digital beat,

reminding me how much I’ve managed to stall.

I could write a new word, or hit delete,

and watch the whole structure finally fall.