It used to be I would sit
and stare at a blank page.

Like the time I carried a typewriter
in my backpack on the Greyhound bus

all the way from Albuquerque
to a boarding house on Cape Cod

intending to write. But I was young
and there was nothing to say.

Now I am old, struggling to make up
for lost hours and days and years

with an abundance of words.