Blasting Away

in the dark,

dashing off responses

to sleeping recipients,

today it’s electronic,

a hundred years ago

I would be lighting a candle

and dipping my ink

in darkness,

scribbling

on flickering yellow pages.

 

Blasting away,

yet I don’t

I know where I am going

a hundred lines,

a hundred letters,

a hundred first class stamps,

this is my life.

 

When I’m gone

the stillness of morning

will belong to someone else

who will likely, more wisely than me,

stay sleeping

in a comfy bed.