I never type poems, I always write them by hand and then struggle to read them
as I type them up, and then I print them out and put them in a folder on my desk,
and a digital folder in the cloud, for first draft hoarding,
but today I'm on vacation and there are kids in the playroom down the hall
and we are about to have brunch and my routine is blown
and one of the kids is wearing awesome silver shoes with LED lighting
and they are playing country music on an iPad but only fragments
and when I went to get coffee I told them to do some chores
and they pretty much told me where to go,
and I went to a giant rock and roll party last night and my notebook is in my bag
and I'm in bed propped up with pillows, so I'm typing this
after checking work emails and Facebook and political news,
and there is fog in the Willamette Valley below, outside my window,
and I'm thinking about that apartment where I read Neruda, on 13th Avenue,
the year I made five fifty an hour cutting cheese in a delicatessen
and had a guitar but didn't play it much, and got help for depression,
and I am glad for all the changes and "Band On The Run" on the stereo upstairs.
