When writing a poem, I often begin by looking for an image, a starting point.
Black sandals on the floor.
A Bible stacked atop a Book of Mormon.
So many books.
Three piles and a stand with lamp.
A glass of water half full.
A blue ballpoint pen.
Leather shoelaces in plastic, purchased at WinCo at least a year ago.
The neighbor dog barks in the night as the crickets at my window hold their breath, stop singing, wait. I wonder if it’s raining. The crickets return to rubbing a stuttering tune, squeaky at the start of summer as if they’ve yet to find a voice.
Still, it could be worse. I stop listening as a moth flutters up from beneath my bed, blunders into a bookcase, slowly circles, searching for the light.
She’ll burn soon enough.
I’m betting dead by morning.
The fan in the kitchen window blusters its importance, pushes against the heat, escorts night-cooled breezes through darkened rooms.
As we sleep.
The cricket weeps,
“Sleep sleep sleep sleep
While the moth bounces against the bare bulb, drowning in the light.
The neighbor dog barks in the night as the crickets at my window hold their breath, stop singing, wait. I wonder if it’s raining.