My pen moves along the page
like the snout of a strange animal
shaped like a human
arm
and dressed in the sleeve of a loose green
sweater
I watch it sniffing the paper
ceaselessly
intent as any forager that has
nothing on its mind
but the grubs and insects
that will
allow it to live another day
It wants only to be here
tomorrow
dressed, perhaps, in the sleeve of a plaid
shirt
nose pressed against the page
writing a few more
dutyful lines
while I gaze out the window
and imagine Budapest
or some other city
where I have
never been