I have been a rolling stone for years now, traveling from state to state.
Six months here, perhaps a year or two there.
Uprooted, unsuited left out of that steady flow of home.
If I didn’t have or make a desk wherever I was I would surely have died years ago.
I need that chair at that desk however makeshift, and that has brought me home.
My stories piled high on one corner and a window to see a Cardinal or a red bird swoop across the yard singing and calling.
My heart can rest when I sit and write, conversing with characters, researching, just looking up words.
I can sit in front of the screen typing, setting down words and phrases like puzzle pieces, for hours on end.
when my neck grows stiff and my legs feel bulbous, I walk about for a while cleaning my friends’ pool or painting a clients house.
Then the iron grows hot again and I must strike.
One day I’ll settle in my own home at my own desk, but until I receive such a blessing, I will make a desk wherever I am.
I will confront my protagonists and watch them dance onto the page and take a bow.