I had a visit at my bus stop the other day from this neighborhood wanderer. I got a little pat and a little meow, and she was off.
“History’s faster than thought, poetry obsolete in tiny decades, though maybe slow tunes dance eternal.”
– Allen Ginsburg, “Friday the 13th”
“I have no idea where these stories come from,” I said. “I just pay attention and write them down.”
She put her hand on my knee. “You need to be patient.”
“I just didn’t think it would be this hard.”
Between us was a low table littered with published debris – manuscripts typed and handwritten, wanton notebooks splayed open to reveal the secrets of the process, coffee gone cold, empty shot glasses, a bottle.
“I feel like a voyeur at my own desk.”
“Or a dreamer.”
We watched the sun go down, fire behind the hills.