The context of this room with its
one window, desk and bookshelves,
cheap art, is suddenly stifling.
The beautifully parallel horizontal blue lines
on white legal, and me staring left to right,

knowing that the ink when it meets
the resistance of the page
will feel introverted, compressed,
not at liberty to jump, the two skinny,
vertical red lines to get past the margin.

Perhaps a better milieu, a hill looking out
on an open field of poppies or high corn,
sitting under an oak stretching toward the sun,
acorns falling, and white clouds,
moving steadily across blue velvet.

Or the deck of a ship at night,
the middle of the ocean, stars,
sparkling white dots on endless,
black night, above grey waves,
moving infinitely to the horizon.

More unconstrained, maybe even large,
flowing font, or freewheeling cursive,
but still and all, miniscule,
meaningless, same block,
same as in the office.