Anemic Drafts and Other Casualties, Accompanied by Cake

I am in the revision palace. 

I’m wading through the “poems in progress” folder and I’m mercilessly picking and plucking and painting and it’s raining 

and I don’t care even though earlier it felt like the sky was trying to split the earth in two (although “into” would be more interesting to riff on there, if this were a poem. It’s not.)

I am happily lost in the mind forest; I am between fair-fried “tornados” in the teeth and yellow bead necklaces.

Lady Mary and her mother drag a body in a poem along with the show’s iconic line “What is a Weekend?”  

I have a list.

I was up early.

Lists be damned.

I am blaring Cake. 

I will do all of the must-do’s, but not now.

I am outwitting the storms. 

I am outwitting anemic drafts.

I am dangerously deleting the early efforts to keep them from contaminating.

I am writing the words. 

I am warm enough for it, not overheated. 

Word Raccoon wants some tea. Some water, please. She is not even asking for Coke Zero, though she’s had a bit of that. She’s fine. 

All in good time, raccoon, but not now. 

Go play with your toys. Go sit in your pink chair. 

Let the adult do the writing today.