Lulled by bells
of cathedrals and cattle,
my mind turns left
down a road out of town,
probably lost
so far from Paris
pollution and I think
of something worth
writing, give up
the best seat
in the house and slink
off to a corner
for a pen, quickly,
before the words jumble
like a license plate number
after a hit and run.
I always write
alone, like an injured
animal afraid
that if I hesitate,
that speeding car
might back up and return
to finish me off.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/normandy-lost-in-translation/
