An ode to a bad poet — a poem

Sunlight makes
Shadows of my pen.
Fingers become men.
Moving in an
Old-body huddle,
Across my pages.

As they wait
For my words,
To continue their trudge
Through a snowy,
Paper landscape.
Perhaps they’re grateful
For the rest,
My bumbling brain provides.

Their quarry,
My pen,
Rests on their shoulders.
Before, laughing,
They begin again.
And words
Become footsteps.
Their destination
‘The End’.

Should I stop now?
Let them wander home,
To finger-families?
Will they eat
Around a palm-table?

Telling stories,
Of my stories,
For little children,
Who, one day,
Will take up the tradition
Of pen carrying?

Thank you,
Little men.
For carrying my pen,
Along my,
Now slushy,
Pages.