24 in 24

I sit here on a gray day listening to

the rain drip from the eaves onto the lid of the rubbish bin.

More than a plop and less than a click

overlaid with the distant train whistle screaming its crossing.

 

Yes, you have my attention.

No, I will not cross your path because

I want to live another day

to write another poem and drink another cuppa.

 

I crack the spine of a new moleskine

jotting impressions, sounds, smells,

prompts as I pray for cohesion

when the day is done.