My attention span is short. Yet, my pen’s is still shorter It looks absent only after a few words… a few lines Though ink in its intestines and subject to furnishing hands It never finishes what it begins. At least, what I want it to finish So, I hold it’s face with both hands, as we share eyes “Write, will you. Do not stop until I give consent.” “Ok” she says, “I will focus”…as her eyes are carried on a light wind I presume that’s why my poetry is never more than a few lines… a few expressions.