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.