Floating Words

History of Leadership Debacles was the subject.

Two pens already run dry

Chronicling the last term of self-worshiping madness.

A glance window’s way

Offered rain trickling down the pane,

Pooling calmly on weathered ledge.

Little did Nature know of my writer’s fatigue,

Save for the one creature of carrion ways

Eyeing up my empty coffee cup,

Its wings shaking off sugared entrapment.

My window-owning cat also found the fly a curious distraction

Between stares below at the gouty-footed landlady in frayed slippers

Taking out the garbage

The downpour half-washing her soiled bathrobe.

Eyes lower to the sheet of wordplay begging for resolve,

Reminding me some sessions,

Like pompous leadership,

Are akin to using a white cane

And seeing little but shadows of what could be

As one gropes for the right words floating about the dark,

But dubious to take purchase on my hungry page.