Lack

[crow]

proofers edit--

I am not a poet.
I lack the substance upon which to write.
I do not carry a messenger bag,
brimmed with spontaneity and colors.
However, i dare not let my arm rest, for it will
crush what i lack.
Under my arm hangs an absence,
a lack of substance.
I pull file folders
with no labels and no contents
and pull out of a bag that has no bottom,
bottomless.
Why should it have a bottom
with nothing to fall to it?
The grey file folders
have no rectitude, no vice.
They leave me
in the same position they were pulled from:
bottomless.
They leave, leaving nothing to speak about
but much to be spoken.