What it really looks like

Someone who shares the house with me
Someone who’s asked me many things
Someone who knows me very well
Has asked me why I never write.

I say, I’m writing all the time.
He says he’s never seen me write.
And if at all he’s seen me write,
It’s never more than half an hour.
I say, I’m writing all the time.

It doesn’t look like writing, though.
I’m nowhere near a desk or chair.
I’m nowhere near a page or pen.
I’m nowhere near a key or click.

It looks like kneading dinner flour.
It looks like filling bottles up.
It looks like tearing spider webs.
It doesn’t look like writing, though.

It looks like nailing finger scabs.
It looks like charting lizard paths.
It looks like pacing up and down.
It doesn’t look like writing, though.

It looks like jumping over dung.
It looks like slipping on the mud.
It looks like running from a bull.
It doesn’t look like writing, though.

It looks like glitchy office calls.
It looks like sipping coffees, tall.
It looks like slamming laptops shut.
It doesn’t look like writing, though.

And when it does, it’s mostly done.
It’s mostly coming to the page
And letting all this writing out
By getting far away from me
And trusting I have done the work.

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