I want to write a poem today
but the wood insists on ritual—
Pledge and patience, lemon oil,
a soft cloth circling
what must be remembered.
The coffee table’s judging me.
The hutch has turned authoritarian.
Even the banister
is giving me splintery side-eye,
and the bureau just rolled its drawers.
My muse, naturally,
has curled up in the dust bunny
beneath the credenza,
refusing to come...
Continue reading...