To Writers

A mosquito, chief editor

of the otherwise excellent artistry

of an evening set and stroll in a park

was deciding where on my sweet

skin to land having been forcibly arrested

by the long sigh of my content

breath, as I watched

the long trees lean at obtuse angles like handwriting

across a green and white page. Only the guiding

of the unseen wind causes them to sway,

causes their leaves to rapturously tingle.

I gave up my blood

to the mosquito who indifferently

returned to errant flitting, now as round

and black as the ballpoint of a wet pen, hoping

it would leave me be.

Two little girls, barely

old enough to even articulate

the idea, were plotting

how they could stay away forever

in the  park and never go

back home as they wrote

into the wood of the gazebo their names.

What if we never went back

and instead spent the night writing

our names in the benches we sleep

on? Wouldn’t the world get bigger

if we stopped

following the inky asphalt trails

everywhere everyday, commuting?

I waited for the girls to return, ready

to spend the rest of their lives

in the park listening to the time

being kept by the pendulating

of a swing groaning under the force

of a body kicking up and down up

and down and I knew the mosquito

would come back to bite me.

by: Raymond Alistair