Not Much Doing On a Sunday Night / Pictures From My Chair
I'm working on a poem tonight. I wrote a poem every day last year, and I have only written five over the last two-and-a-half months. I'm letting myself be for a while.
I rehearse words in my head all day. I make sentences. I march them around. I pair them off. They take shape like babies.
They won't always translate into type, though. They're just not ready to come down.
I am not patient.
So I am picking through some client work in my chair, taking note of what's around me, and waiting for the next big thing.
And that, my friends, if you throw in some Vietnamese food and a broken water heater, was Sunday night.
You can unbatten your hatches now. I think the excitement has passed.