I envy the novelist, words
by the hundreds sliding fingertip
to screen, a playground of plot somersaulting
to the next.
I grieve for the poet, whose
inert pen hesitates, immobilized
by the next word slipping though a fingertip,
out of reach.
I have yet to meet one I like.
Written for the Tuesday Writing Prompt over at Go Dog Go Cafe – using the two words “poet” and “pen”