In a womb of my own creation I sit
in a worn easy chair in a rooming
house of old men, in my 20's. I'm on
the top floor attic. 1 bathroom on
the second floor. Up top I have a
*** to **** in and a tinny radio
to listen to classical music while
I drink beers and smoke cigarettes
and read my books, my education,
until in my cups I surrender and
thank God for another day gone.
I wake trembling and try again.
It was a space where I was able
to collect my madness into a
coherent sentence then paragraph
then story that I understood
and followed my yellow brick road
home to my children.