Lexpomo, and I’m running on empty.
Brain dragged down with to-do items
(fix treads on wheelchair ramp, cut  

trees slamming on the siding, decipher
letter from the IRS), I try to press on,
read poems, consider news items, explore  

old starts never finished, untangle
memories. Just put down words.     I’m stuck.
So I meet up with a friend for crabcakes.  

The sun shining through a window where
barn swallows compete for the perfect
perch, we talk for hours about anything

but writing.  Leave an outsized tip, giggle
when we both must uncreak our legs. 
Too much fun to quit now, we make  

our way through the aisles.  Drool
over purses on display constructed
from repurposed suede scraps –  

fuschia, umber, palest chartreuse.
Try on ponchos, gauchos, every bandana
in the place, settle on a boho bandeau  

and a shimmery shawl.  I drive home
in rush hour, thinking as I watch the cars
maneuver, seeking their ideal path,        

perhaps I have found my opening.