epoch

i found this written on a chipotle napkin in one of my novel
notebooks. it had a phone number on it for a person i never called.
there was also a stain i can only imagine is the result of wayward
tabasco sauce.

i am a poem writing itself.
unfinished, some days i go hanging
upon a half phrase, sometimes
without meaning for an hour.
i dream to be of epic things, teeming
with angels and devils and heroes,
but i do not know more than the
words written here.
i think it must be nice in the stories
outside my little window, but
i am satisfied merely to have begun,
and to know i have an ending
that gives me a reason to be.

ghost