Writing
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Sparkling and paint-splattered, Saturday oversleeps turning into her pillowPillow soft Sunday urns for another day and a trenta iced coffeeCoffee carries Monday to work in a fireman’s holdHolding her promise Tuesday clings to the edgeEdging from the brink Wednesday throws her leg over the humpHumpback chest Thursday breaks open spilling pages freeFreed Friday shimmies down
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At a plain desk cocooned in a sun cherished nookEditing my novel with a hour stolenVoices inside my head captured between pagesI can’t finish, I’m no writer, I’ll never be good enoughIn the citadel of books, all voices are shushedCloistered in hardback silence Cloistered in hardback silenceIn the citadel of books, all voices are shushedI
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Hushed explosions and rapid gunfireLeak out from the living roomRap rumbles Upstairsas heavy footed children tumbleA frustrated dishwasher clattersWhile the comforter-laden washer lumbers towards a raucous freedom I walk Along a winding cobblestones of plotsBehind a fortress of verses listening to theVoices chitter in the thicket of my keys In a quiet corner of my
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Last Tuesday, I had carpal tunnel surgery on my left hand. I’ve had pain in both hands for years but I put off treatment afraid of losing use of my hands while healing, hoping alternative therapies would work. The pain and loss of dexterity made the decision for me. The surgery was fast. Painlessly I
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A heavily synthesized version of “Don’t You (Forget About Me) drifted out of the elevator as the doors opened. Dean stepped inside. This song was from that movie, The Breakfast Club, one of Meryl’s favorites and now one of his favorites too. That is a good sign. Dean pressed the button for the top floor
circular staircase 