It's late, and the day has been busy. I just finished preparing for teaching this week. Heading back into an actual classroom this week. Translation: Make sure my affairs are in order.
Led a poetry workshop this evening. Wrote with some really talented poets. And I got about four new drafts of poems. That's pretty miraculous.
And Saint Marty is very grateful for that.
You Prefer Quiet
by: Martin Achatz
I pick up my pen, almost write your name.
But I don't. You wouldn't want me to
single you out, make you sit at the head
table, endure toasts, well-wishes, cake.
No. You prefer quiet. You told me this, texted
"Quiet is better" one night when I complained
about silence that followed an argument
at home. You always keep quiet close by, walk
down the road with it, pockets stuffed with apples
to feed the old mare. At night, you make yourself
a mojito after you put your life to bed. Imagine
you're Hemingway in Key West. As you sip
your drink, you can almost hear a six-toed
cat pad across your kitchen floor in the dark.
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