I am a pantry of ingredients
for a novel:
dusty plots,
characters named Clare and Milligan,
an ending in an airport.
For now it is enough,
this stockpile of bits,
journals full of arcs
and dialogue,
reassurance
that I can nibble on these
in a creative emergency.
But I am aware
I may never
string them together,
that tiresome effort
of setting and theme
and all the little words
in between.
When a person dies
is not their pantry
often still full?
I prefer to eat
fresh words
each day
but it is nice
to know
the back shelf
is full.