Currently listening to: Bruce Springsteen, I’m on Fire (which is on a playlist I created at my old desk job. 1347 songs of various moods).
Drinking: cold coffee. Which reminds me of my friend Merritt. She’d always say, “You pay for iced coffee, so why won’t you drink your cold coffee?” Simple: it’s gross.
It’s 9:27 in the morning. I watched the lunar eclipse from my bed, watched it turn red while walking the dog in the dark and have packed lunches, driven to school and back, drank a pot of coffee, cleaned the downstairs half of the house, started two loads of laundry, writhed my hands in anxious abandon over not hearing back from a magazine I submitted poems to, ate a cookie and vacuumed. The dog is panicking because it’s raining. I glance over at two canvas and my bucket full of paints. There’s no will there. Not yet, not yet.
Some mornings I feel like I’ve used up all my words:
You were sewn
into my shadow
when the sun set
i hung you on the line
hoping you’d be stolen
before the sunrise.
Laundry is done. This is where I bow out gracefully.