Today at my new job (which seems nice and calm), I scratched a few tiny poems out into my black moleskine (the one that never ever leaves me) as I waited for the lady who is to be my co-worker/supervisor to arrive for the day. It was odd to be there, but it made sense all at once. I could walk over to my purple purse and remove the black book with its indigo pen but that would be too literal.
I wrote about amber bottles, and what liquids hid within them. I wrote about the still of the early morning, of the bitter swirl of office coffee.
I wrote it fast and I wrote it clean and I wrote it with all my little heart.
I still get home in time to light candles and chop carrots and feed the men by sunset. Am happy.