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Lines on the Page.

September 18, 2007

I wanted to write
this morning, wanted to note all the details as I walk through
the house to my chair
near the kitchen window; the kettle on the stove whistles and
mists each pane above
the sink, the leather couch harbors one cat draped
like a black sweater
his front paw twitching against the smooth fabric while
the other, a calico
flops over the window ledge blinking rising air from the heat
vent out of her eyes
she pretends not to see me

I wanted to sit and write as the gray November skies box me
in pencil in hand
to sketch myself out of these confines, make curvy lines
connecting dot to dot
filling the spaces of my weekday, and then erase the part where
the blue jay flies into the window
that sound like rifle fire extracts me from my seat like a splinter tweezed
from reddened skin
I walk to each window and look out. He’s there amongst wild raspberry
vines, dazed but still alive
I press my forehead against the glass willing him to fly, then return to
my chair to write about it

Copyright © 2007

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