The Work

Hemingway said
there is nothing to writing.
Just sit down at the typewriter
and bleed.

Maybe he was right.
Maybe the words have to come
from somewhere deep.
From old wounds.
From places we would rather hide.
Maybe the ghosts need to come out
and walk around for a while
in this tear-stained valley.

But sometimes
you just sit down
and look around.

A sleeping cat on the bed.
A coffee cup on the desk.
Pill bottles beside the television,
little reminders
that the years keep moving,
like little soldiers.

A golf tapestry above the bed.
A room full of ordinary things
that somehow became a life.

Shadow sits on the desk,
watching the sparrows
in the elm tree outside.
Her eyes locked on survival,
the old instincts
that have kept creatures alive
for thousands of years.

Then suddenly,
she shifts her attention
to the woman in the hot pink shirt
walking down the street,
headphones on,
lost in her own world.

Maybe that's the work.
Not just bleeding.
Not just breaking open
the places that hurt.

Maybe it's also noticing.
The small things.
The strange things.
The beautiful things
that pass by the window
when we finally sit still
and enjoy the ride.