Dear Today,

your intent

was to find me
at my kitchen counter
rocking cockeyed- one heel to the other,
then back to the other-
half-heartedly sloshing dishwater
just to bring some tiny order to the chaos-

to leave me making and forgetting tea,
compos(t)ing letters to betters,
and impassioned speeches to save for future soapboxing
and writing crap poetry in your honor
(instead of cooking dinner promised in the prehistory of ‘This Morning’)



eight lines about making art on weekdays.

Each Idea-
Incubated but as of yet unhatched,
presses thickly against the last one
(wet wool mouth breathed)
until my mind, a funnel,
fills to brimming at the top
leaving my hands down below
dry cracked and scaly with want.