The Writer

The writer in this tale

Is a simple man.

Dressed in a white tee

And black slacks,

Drinking black coffee

And twisting a white pen.

The blank piece of paper

In front of him.

"Nothing is wrong,"

He would assure himself

"For I am a simple man."

For he is a simple man.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

As the painted black paper

Floated out the window

Into the hands of a

Strange woman.