monday

writing among writers:
Once in a while, a great while, most whiles,
I discover that i am alone in a room full and thirsty for a joining.
Their words ring in some re-run past as I scream for tomorrow,
for when it's fair,
and they want it over already.
Stiff in their envelopes of self recognition,
I free leaf words into brief impromptu.
Finally, I can't, I won't let it go.

I think downstairs is best,
half blue, half red brick,
dim red lights light the page,
second hand decoration,
mismatched:
husband chairs, wife tables,
grandfather arm chair, creaking and well storied,
a grandchild mic
listening eagerly to hear and re-tell.
Can't ignore the great rock back wall
that supports the upside where the rest resides.
but we're down here, away,
writing, clapping, whispering,
waiting for something to click.
It always does