The Workshop

I keep opening drawers
in this crooked little room
where the beginning is supposed to be.

One drawer holds an old hammer,
another, a matchbook,
a third, only dust, 
everything useful long gone.

I strike a match anyway,
a feeble light, but enough to see a word
crouched in the corner,
pretending it wasn’t there.

I coax it out like a stray dog
that isn’t sure
I deserve its trust.

The moment I touch it,
it bolts, vanishes beneath 
the floorboards,
leaving me only its warmth
on my fingertips.

What a way to start:
chasing ghosts
with a pocketful of words
and no idea
what I’m trying to build.