I still wipe down a drop of water
next to the sink
shuffle the newspapers into a neat pile
for recycling
check my emails
go outside retrieve a fallen leaf
top off the dogs’ water bowl
scratch a stomach or two
tidying up after lunch
stalls my facing a blank page
and pen with a bellyful of ink
for me to write a poem
I must drop everything
I’m doing and focus
on that inkling
that clue
those whispers
come find me
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