Word Play

When night takes over its duty
And evening has turned from cool to cold
When most have found a pillow
And a love
I write.

It begins with a poem-
short, banal
A warm up really
Then an email, or two
Then a private blog or two
And finally a stab at another work of fiction, a play, a story
Or part of one that’s been in progress
And the hours tick by
And the thoughts mulled like the
Holiday wine
So sweet and so addictive
That tomorrow comes too soon.

Writing must happen
Or else nothing else will
As I think it through—
All of it—
The people, the plans, the purpose
Of what it is
We are about.

And then I write
About the young man without arms
Who in 1974 sold typewriters
And quite successfully
Pulled his wagon with his chest
Harness and plucked away at the
Keys with a pencil in his head harness
While his neighbor, the charismatic
Spinster who had two cats and a pair of
Double D knockers that turned the
Heads of the old geezers in the building,
Made him dinner and taught him what
It means to really love one’s
Neighbor.

So, why I write
Is just what it is.
It’s the same as why I breathe
It’s because I must.