A Place to Sit

A place to sit,
early in the morning
before the fog has lifted,
perhaps alone,
or better still, not.

A place to scratch out
the verses that run rampant
in your head,
wild, untamed things full
of those most fearful of beasts, feelings.

Sometimes angry, sometimes
so full of pain and loss and memory
that the paper is wet with your teats.
Sometimes still, or erotic, or grateful
and still, never

predictable, here, as you seem so calm
from the street, black journal and pen
in hand, hopelessly old fashioned, quaint even,
you write like a madman foaming at the mouth,
healing yourself with every word.

About this poem

People tell me I express things well. I don’t believe it. If I did, my life would be different. But I talk and I write as a way to sift through it all to sift through it all, and find something that makes sense.

The picture is of my front porch, where I often write, or read, or stare into space. This time of year, it’s one of my favorite places.

Tom