POEM 24

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.