I just walked right up to the clerk
aware of his look of guarded concern, no doubt fearing
a complaint but wasn't it too early to complain about anything
this glorious morning
in Seattle, Washington, the sort of morning where
happenstance results in a handwritten poem waiting to be released
like a bird from an outstretched hand
yes, it was the internet that didn't work, a might have been complaint that
turned into a golden gift of freedom from the screen
the feel of the pen held between the fingers, the noticeable
drag across the hotel pad found under the TV
I just walked up to the clerk, his gaze transforming to fascination
as I presented the poem that needed to be spoken aloud
to him, the clerk, that early morning when only one
other woman was gazing intently at us as I read
this one that needed air to breathe
to remind us all that we are free, after all
we have only to remember
(The poem that I wrote is on a previous blog post https://le-poeme.blogspot.com/2026/07/when-there-is-no-internet.html)
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