Poetry critique before work this morning. I make a note about a line and wish I had gone through a songwriting phase when I was younger. The window’s closed, but I’m pretty sure the air outside smells like I should be wearing a sweater. If mornings could be people I would sit out on the front steps next to this one and drink tea, and it would drink coffee, and we’d stare out at nothing particular for a few quiet minutes before we each stood up to start our days.
September 17, 2013