Take It Off

The tome of collected poems is faded along the spine. It spent all summer in my window. Newer paperbacks lie strewn around the room, piles upon piles of paper, and notebooks, and post-its. I am not, without these collections of ink.

I fear I have spoken too much of my love for them, have waxed poetic in too many useless social situations and diluted the power they have over my muscles. That the idea of being a writer somehow became more important than actually being one. That I was too tempted by peoples' adoring eyes to remember they are not the prize, nor reason enough to fight.

An old neighbor came to visit today; he stood on my stoop and greeted me like a dear friend. This neighborhood was always too nice, I lived here but couldn't afford to do anything, you know? His new spot in the East Village was a little noisier, perhaps, without a stoop and the walls so thin, but it was his now, and was ready to love it. I think perhaps I have sunk so far into this neighborhood, that I will never know how to leave. Feel the moss grow between my toes.

Constantly expect the earth to erupt beneath me.