On Being a Writer
I woke up,
and wanted to write.
But the sun was so bright,
the laundry so high.
My dishes were dirty, so I washed them.
My dog a disaster, so I washed him.
I raked the leaves and paid my bills,
or looked at them.
I checked the mail, the fridge,
my favorite web page and his.
I pulled up a blank document
and I really,
very much wanted to type.
But my nails:
click click, click Click!
unkempt and uneven and
really, I promise it wouldn’t have much mattered
but the sound was so massive and
my house—so silent!
And that echo, everything’s echo
off of the [almost] clean wood floor.
I knew if I was to get anything done at all—
at all done,
I would need to drive to a local
bookstore
coffee shop
café
but they are so very loud,
you know.
People everywhere.
Attractive and Obnoxious ones, too.
So I drove home,
But the sun was setting,
and it was so dark.
My partner rushed in
and greeted me with a quick, socially
acceptable kiss
and I, a welcome that echoed
off of the cold [almost] clean floor.
Clearly, I needed to put on a heavier sweater,
make dinner
and
Write.
So I made dinner, scratched this out
on a paper towel
and committed to trying again tomorrow
when it’s not so bright, cold, dirty, busy, quiet
so damn, so damn distracting.
Maybe then you’ll ask if I’m a writer
and I can tell you
No. Or Yes. Or no.
Satisfied that it really never mattered,
never mattered at all.
Poem: © 2011 Ashley Wolpert Miller
Photo credit: © JAYANNPO / Adobe Stock
