Three A.M. Day five of a hundred-degree
heat wave. Writing, black coffee hot
against the cool. Nothing of consequence
appears to happen at this hour.
The moonlight diffuse, shallow
as a baby's breathing.
Suddenly, I wish
for a consequential day job
like my brother-in-law, days spent
arguing over criminals' punishments.
A tangible outcome, to see someone
behind bars, the streets safer.
I argue over the construct of ideas, the order
of words. The tangible outcome of this work,
to inflame a passion for the printed word,
is too seldom seen in rooms of glassy-eyed
twentysomethings more interested in their own
sexual escapades than those of Blanche Dubois.
At day's end, no crystal ball conjures
the worth of this work: students aged,
bent under a lamp, eyes enlarged behind
thick lenses, lips pursed, ready to kiss
the words into being, or stroking keys
inking words onto a screen.
Three A.M. The neighbor's bed
thumps. At night, life happens.
Arms, legs, lips, tongues entwined
under sheets. My fingers ink
sheets bringing words into being,
work as consequential as breathing.
|