Poem for March 1

On Getting to Work on a Book When I leave work have packed the car and left the parking lot by the time I am at the light at the four corners, I am finally in my own head, and so clear-headed: I can now get home and work on that book, one of several, at last, and then I drive the loopy lumpy road beside the river, surrounded by trees and leaves and needles and whispers and ghosts and water and radio reports and my meandering mind thinks of what there is to do that must be done this very day so that by the time I crest the hill and start down toward my driveway I have shifted gears from the inside of my head back to the outside; flicked through all the things that I have agreed to do for someone implicitly or in fact, and the dog greets me as if I were his good and true person the one he has waited for and possibly for whom he has some plans but first there’s wood to haul and laundry in the washer, it is raining of course so something must be done which is above all not sitting down to knock out any book.

Peggy Johnson Wonalancet

Oct. 2012