When do you write?

I write my best poems in a dark room...

I write my best poems in a dark room,

deafened by white noise,

stepping on half-eaten bananas,

trying to avoid misplaced toys.

I write my best poems at the kitchen sink,

gripping the scourer, going to war

with the last resistance of burned chips,

clinging to the pan for (what feels like) an hour.

I write my best poems panting out of breath,

stumbling down steps,

watching the train that just left,

the one I sprinted to get.

I write my best poems at the table,

surrounded by guests, laden with food,

speaking a blessing, raising our glasses,

eating slow-cooked ragu.

I write my best poems on the commute,

watching people, precious, complicated people

overwhelmed and confused,

ambitious and excellent, with so much to prove.

I write my best poems after seeing the news,

lamenting a world beaten, bent double, and bruised.

I write my best poems as my wife laces her shoes,

With a beauty I fall toward every time that she moves.

I write my best poems just to live it again—

to savour the scent of my life with my page and my pen.

I write my best poems without motive or mission,

I just refuse to miss out on this life that I’m living.