The downtown bar was cold, dark, and quiet, except for the sound of an occasional cocktail glass hitting the tile counter as the young bartender put them away; it was clean and smelled of bleach and now, smoke, as my attorney lit up another and exhaled, a milky cloud escaping the left side of her mouth and then quickly vanishing as she began debriefing my pre-divorce proceedings from the previous hour, rattling off words like dick and motherfucker as though they had been a part of her…

She arrived alone, careful to avoid his glance as she joined him on the bench.  The clerk called their names and escorted them to the courtroom; it felt clinical and routine, like a doctor appointment.  When the judge read the names and birth dates of their daughters, she focused her attention on a loose thread, still attached to her pants, and wrapped it tightly around her finger.  With the beat of a gavel, fourteen years ended in twelve minutes.  She picked up her purse, followed him…

Feeling inexplicably inspired to write, yet inept, as I seek to delightfully discover some satisfying sort of creative catharsis.  Perusing prose and poetry, I search for a trigger that will produce, poignantly perhaps, just the right literary lingo I long for.  Wanting to write, read, and repeat until I enjoy the rhapsodic rhythm of words worthy of Whitman and Whittier.  Something eloquent, I hope, engaging and entertaining with musical metaphors mirroring mighty masters of cleverly crafted…