with my wallet. I sit on it all day. I drive
to work along back corridors on roads
with only names. Thirteen traffic lights
and I am there. On the telephone, Mrs. Davis
wants to know when her order will arrive.
I leave a voicemail with instructions to wait
a few more days. At lunch, I unfold the poem
on the table beside my water bottle and
a sandwich. I spread my chips across my
sandwich wrapper and take one at a time
while I revise. In moments, I have crossed
out several lines. Were these emotions more
significant because they flash and fall today?
I add that to the margin and draw an arrow
to the last line of the poem. The wind
that carried through the lunchroom window
had touched the dumpster on its way to me.
I fold the poem again and slip it in my pocket
with my wallet. At six-o-clock, I turn off
the computer and take my keys down to my car.
On my way home, I surf the radio stations.
Thirteen traffic lights and I am home so I
turn on my computer. I unfold the poem
and drop it on my desk on top of several
others. I open Word. I type the poem
and save it in a folder called "New Poems"
