Like a stutter,
You draw the pen across the page, then blot it out.
It must must be perfect this time.
Does perfection exist?
Will you ever see him on the treadmill at the gym,
Or catch his shadow passing round the corner of Main Street?
Is anything perfect?
Are our spidery black marks on the paper flawless?
But, like a stutter,
They take a shape of their own,
And can become