Scraps

Yesterday, I ventured out of my comfort zone and attended a poetry workshop sponsored by The Writer's Place. We used an exercise called "Twenty Little Poetry Projects". The idea is to respond to each of the twenty prompts listed without considerable forethought. In the end, you could have a poem, or at least the bones of one. By the end of the workshop, I'd only gotten to prompt #11. Here are the scraps from the workshop.
***


NPM #21

Every time she walk up or down the stairs, she counts them -
four on the top landing, eleven in the middle, two on the bottom.
When it rains on her old house, the smell of dense pine and plaster
rise from the stairs and call out like the voices of so many ghosts.
Mother would never live here; wouldn't be caught dead this far west of the Atlantic.
Father isn't nearly so faithful to New York - he's not that bougeousie
If the two hadn't met in Nashville, she wouldn't be here today.
That's the insane grip of love, it's outstretched hand gently reaching out
caressing like an airbag.
***

I excluded my first line because, as much as I loved it, it had nothing to do with anything else. I hope to create something else from it. Maybe tomorrow?