By eleven, I'm starting the third shift of the day. Now, when the city rests, when the clients are all asleep and the demands of the day are at ease, the edges of the white page seem softer, somehow, more curious than demanding. You think perhaps you are tired, but it's January in a pandemic, so you're always tired anyway, and you're always thinking you feel some strange way, it's all become white noise by now.
You miss poetry,
when things are quiet around you.
A post-it on your computer says Trust the process.
The thing is post-its are the process, do you see the joke? Do you see the great cosmic humor in it all? Your walls are a mess of post-its, your insides are a mess of notes and ideas and lines of poetry that curl themselves along dusty corners this hour speaks to you because it is as messy as you are and thus as peaceful.
The ice clinks in your bourbon like a cliché, but the thing about clichés is if they ain't broke don't fix 'em and lord knows you have enough broken bones inside yourself to mend as it is. Sometimes gifts arrive misshapen and crinkled.
Open them anyways.
Trust me. (They are the process.)
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