sitting in my crowded shop
line is near the door

the coffee, doing nothing for me
and I write the words,

“going slow, not always careful
fast isn't always that rash
there are breaths which are not wasted
when put to life before ash”

and

the meter and rhyme is
    ripped from emily dickinson
    ripped from her childhood choir’s rendition of amazing grace
    ripped from old anglo-saxson pubs
    ripped from chaucer’s friends
        roman soldiers
            or who the hell knows

but…

i'm not sure what those lines are echoing
because I’m so freakin' exhausted
wow, this week…
I didn't sleep well
and haven't slept well for some time
but who can sleep well at a time like this?
there is so much to learn
so much to live for
so many sunrises to take in

ya, that’s the truth

and maybe that’s what those lines are
as my thoughts begin catching up to my hand
and maybe others will see what I see
either way, I got a few words out
bring on the day