This morning there’s a lot of them.
Everything seems to be getting in the way
of my writing this one.
Well, not really everything,
but a few things feel like everything right now.
Such is the case
with feeling overwhelmingly interrupted, I suppose.
Spotify keeps cutting out repeatedly,
and every time I take a break from the screen
and go to the kitchen to fill my cup with water
I can’t fill it because the dishes in the sink have
shifted back to their pancake stack position
below the tap, and I have to carefully return them
to the edges of the basin, which causes me to lose
my train of felt-thought.
Meanwhile, my body feels like
how I’d imagine a cucumber in a Ball jar
would feel as it was pickling.
I’m sore and heavy,
which I’m accustomed to,
but these body sensations are flowing across
my nerves a little more sloshy than usual,
which is preventing my hippocampus
from finding the internal sticky notes
I left for it, last night, on the refrigerator in my heart
where my poems begin.
Repetitive yawning has been happening
for a little while now.
Enter brain fog, and the little demon screech
piercing from the mists of another
writer’s block moment,
which this morning I’m comparing
to a little cricket-like thought
that runs into the room in unlaced Dr. Martens
and knee socks and makes fun of how
there’s no one to take care of you by shouting no
one, no one, like a jealous critic.
But all is not Lord of the Flies
because this morning I’m trying to comfort myself
by reframing my thinning hair
in a more illustrious light.
In the mirror now I tell myself
I can see a real wave
starting to form where only a side part used to be.