Poem

This Place Where You Are Not

The routines of my day
ground into a dozen half
snapped threads.  Reach
for the phone, and stop
short.  Save half of dinner,
then eat all ten minutes later.
Replace on the shelf, a book
you'd like.  Let slip
some anecdote, image,
story which once I'd save, say,
the one about the mouse
who in summer lazed
as others labored,
who, midwinter, warmed
those frozen others with
the warmth of words.

I must learn to be unready.