On a sun-blanched table I
write. I skitter scatter type delete dredge words
from vast crevasses of nowhere. I bite
my fingernail. I exhale. Birds gossip-monger, hop
flirt in giddy cacophony. I tap imaginary pen
against imaginary paper on a screen I can barely see in
glaring 7 am desert day. I inhale. Coffee
steams. I sniff, sneeze, sip. I stare at nothing; flinch–
the flick of a bee I never noticed investigating me.
I tap dream tap dream
of wistful everywheres and landscapes
where I am not. I write
generous increments of seconds. I stop:
child at the door, husband at the coffee pot, work crowding
the edges of my mind. 15 minutes–
all I can say is I made the most of them.