—fell asleep inside a sunlit room;
when I woke, it was too dark to leave.
—stood and walked, bleary eyed, felt
my hand along the wall for the
switch to my brain.
—flicked on a false and yellow light,
a sycophantic gesture to nocturnal minds,
as I, arrogant, made day the night.
—went to make coffee for the moonrise and
saw there was only decaf. Made a note. Then,
—crossed last week off the calendar. Circled
a reminder from last Tuesday.
—sat in the wicker chair on the front porch, ruminated
on the obligations that muddle my artistic hopes.
—enslaved by whims of inspiration, I
could not make a virtue the habit of creation. And still,
—falling behind in everything else,
—went back to watercolor dust and poetry,
burdens soothed by the hum of night,
poured out enough heart to thin
the blood on my sleeve
pale pink, and delicate, just enough to prove I lived.