a line you wrote six years ago is sitting in your notebook
undecided about what it wants to be
most lines in my notebooks are still undecided about what
they want to be, but all are quite content to be where they be hidden away,
on that bottom shelf of my bookshelf, unread, unseen, ignored by all eyes but
occasionally mine. They want no other attention. They are not the performers on
stage. They are the behind the scenes, waiting in the wings, support for the
main cast who appears rarely in nano novels that select people may read.