Word Raccoon insists that if we aren’t going to the Father John Misty show tonight, then we are going to write something. (She still can’t believe we’re not going. I really ought to toast some marshmallows or something for her, shouldn’t I?)

She’s been busy. She met with the gym owner yesterday, and was told he had a feeling she’s rebellious. You think?

Today, he continued the intake. I’m afraid WR was not well-behaved. At all. Maybe she wanted to prove him right.

First, she had to give her age. IN FRONT OF OTHERS! She was not happy.

Then came her height. She began pacing across the gym owner’s desk. I was worried. I should’ve been.

“Not going to ask my weight next, are you?” she asked, nostrils flared.

“No, no,” he said quickly, glancing at his sidekick.

“At least I won’t have to ask for the manager,” WR hissed under her breath, since both the owner and the manager were in the office, along with Barry.

But then she stepped onto the weird machine that supposedly measures everything inside of a person, and immediately noticed that it was MEASURING HER WEIGHT.

Friend, avert your eyes. Skip the next sentence if you don’t want to know just how naughty that animal was…

The raccoon pointed a certain two fingers at the gadget.

Thankfully, the room erupted in laughter. But when the bio age results were read, WR used language that (she thought) shocked Barry. He tapped her shoulder. He claims he was commiserating; WR interpreted it as light censorship. Though she contained her displeasure, she briefly contemplated not cooking dinner.

She pretended to believe him when he explained himself, but she still gave him the stink eye along with the corn on the cob. And she didn’t give him any Tajin for it. 

The gym owner said he was only giving me stats compared to others of my age and height in a “don’t shoot the messenger” way.

“That’s where you went wrong,” WR said. “We cannot be compared to others.”

Everyone laughed again, but we were not kidding.

Anyway. My writing imp insisted on writing this morning. Finally. I was beginning to wonder if she was on strike.

She wrote four poems (please, please know that these titles are rough drafts):

• Shroud to Shawl (too bald, accurate but needs finessing)
  
• On a Burning Bridge (again, too much)
  
• Pillar of Aughts (unnecessarily complicated title, but the poem itself is a scorcher; this one may be too sharp for this world. At least for now.)
  
• The Gift (too nondescript)
  
• Animal, Vegetable, ? (you see the problem)
  
• His Arms Are Universes (based on a family joke from years ago)

For once, the poems are better than the titles, which is a relief. Still rough, but not terrible.

Last night I was preparing to submit one of my favorite poems, and the first stanza, which had been nagging at me, became intolerable.

Mercifully, the fix slid right into my mind.

Then another poem I wanted to pair with it had weak ankles. I fixed those, too.

I think I’ve begun to understand something I didn’t before about poetry.

I can’t explain it better than that just now. But I’d like to try, if you ever want to discuss.

Word Raccoon is all Song of Solomon over here, a book of the Bible I used to skip. Who wants to be complimented on her goat hair?

But WR gets it now. Still overwrought from writing poetry and too much of everything, she gets what it means to have a heart half-stuck open all the time. 

You’d think WR would be embarrassed to write so freely. Her throat is aching with all she’d like to say.

But she won’t because she only thinks she controls my keyboard.

She certainly doesn’t control others and wouldn’t presume to try. 

Listen more, write less, WR. Maybe you’ll hear something worth hearing. 

What she’s hearing right now is an audiobook (still not a fan of that medium) and she’s sniffing a piece of driftwood. It’s silly, but she almost thinks she smells maple syrup. Impossible, right?

Word Raccoon considers her favorite maple tree and inhales deeply, but she’s too far from it to detect any scent at all. Tomorrow, WR. After your eye appointment. Now go to sleep.