From Reading A Book

Sometimes I say I’m going to write a novel–
even though I can’t write a novel– just because it’s great
to be on the top of the bestseller charts. I’ve always thought so, ever since

I read novels myself which takes me to far off places
filled with unlimited possibilities of what could happen.
Today I was walking my dog, hoping an idea would wander

though my mind making me break into a smile. I bought
notebook and pen, but it has lain undisturbed gathering
dust on the floor by the bed. I thought I would get my

best ideas at night, because late in evenings my
brain is full of ideas bombarding me– remembering notebook,
I could try writing but, too tired to pick it up

hoping I would remember it the next morning–
only to let it slip though my fingers. I read more
hoping one of these days I could write like this but

knowing I would have to be content in imaging,
the stories in my head. Anyone one of these stories
could one day be mine at the top of the list.

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