Deadly Sin

Let's see, now. I was riding along on a city bus. My stop was coming up, so I had put my magazine inside my briefcase, snug there beside my lunch, and I was sleepily watching the street signs.

Actually, I guess I was watching buildings and store signs, more than anything. I had ridden this route so many times, I hardly had to watch for street signs.

Then I heard it.

The click of a ballpoint pen was unmistakable. The sound came from the seat immediately behind mine. Obviously, somebody was preparing to write something.

Was it a thought which had just jumped out at them? A line for a poem? Maybe just a reminder. Maybe another item on the grocery list. But writing.

Someone writing! Another writer? Someone who, like I had done so many times on the bus, was jotting something down that would later become a real poem?

Oh, how tempting it was to turn to see this person ... to ask, "Are you a writer?" To ... well, the poem says it all:

DEADLY SIN

I heard the click of a pen

in the seat behind me,

imagined the scratch of words

across paper, the beginnings

of something so compelling

I was tempted to turn, to peer,

suggest, but resisted as though

in the presence of deadly sin,

and at the next stop got off

the bus, feeling I had been cast

out of The Garden as the doors

folded firmly shut behind me.

© 1998

(originally published in ByLine)

***

Today's word: tempted