The private eye disguise
In glasses and bushy brows,
With nose and funny mustache
Able to deceive the soused.
I am impersonating the author,
The teller of these tall tales
Of tarnish valor and unfair maidens
And life’s sordid travails.
It is hard to fake the writing
To sit here and make stuff up.
The computer stares at me blankly
Like an audience saying, “Never enough.”
I can’t take one more day,
Maybe not ever one more hour.
I’m looking for the clues,
But everything turns up sour.
The writer has disappeared,
The creator now uncreated.
And everything I try or do
Comes out jaded or simply dated.
I am the created cliche,
Left behind to hold this space.
O’ author come back to me
So my future won’t be erased.
091222
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