No. 225 - On Writing and Being a Hood Ornament

I want to write.
Full time.
No distractions.

No noise,
no horns, no parties,
no doors closing.

Not in coffee shops
or public libraries
where the homeless fidget and snore.

But a private library—
The University Club on 54th,
or an empty room
at the New York Athletic Club overlooking Central Park.

A pot of coffee.
My typewriter.
A hundred sheets of blue paper.
A humidor full of cigars.
Cashmere socks and slippers.
A fireplace.

Insulated—like a womb.
Slow heart rate.
Deep breaths.
Long exhales.
Eyes closed.
Lips shut.
At peace.

Fingers in a fury.
Knuckles dancing.
Wrists steady.

Myopic.
Sailing…tacking.
Grinning.

Effortless control—
hands off the wheel,
a hood ornament,

simple existence,
lost in the will of God.

But I drift—
between beds,
cities, ranches, rental cars.

One day a suit,
tie, loafers;
the next,
jeans and cowboy boots.

Writing with my thumbs
in taxis and airports,
among awful distractions.

Yet the words appear.
Lines form.
Ideas percolate.
Essays publish.

-Composed, Edited, and Published at The Duda Ranch in Fischer, TX