I cannot remember the last time I held a pencil,
firm in my hand like a Kennedy at the podium,
lead whisking above the page as I attempt a
lonesome farmhouse on the prairie. The pencil
shades in long shadows from the edge of the house,
creeping along sandy shortgrass and curly mesquite.
I try to depict a herd of wind turbines on the distant
horizon, an impending suggestion, but they look silly
and I scrub them out, leaving trace ghost lines of
hereafter, brushing the eraser crumbs onto the desk
with the back of my hand like dead autumn skin.
I imagine the late sun warming the house cat
perched in the window, eyes closed, cold nose
pressed against the screen. I do not draw the cat,
but it is there.
Evening Panoply 