by Robert L. Ferrier19 Sep 2014
I record my weight
against time spent writing
plots on green graph paper
taped to the door of the fridge
my weight a dotted line
as if I can subtract some mass
by slighting the amount of ink.
I score my writing time
with a heavy hand in black
praying that the two lines converge.
As the good line tracks up the dashed line falls
intersecting at the balance of intentions
a stasis of resolve and temptation.
Then written copy pries separation
breathing room between the traces
earned with each page produced
hammering down the dotted bottom line
lifting the better twin,
fueled where the drill bites ore
deep in the manuscript mine.