I am sat at a table of wood
on a wooden chair,
this is the kitchen
where no one is cooking anything
and nothing reminds me of life too much.
I have my laptop and my coffee mug,
the one with the crack that is not a hair,
and here is where my story has to write itself,
while outside blackbirds, dust
and autumn clouds can fly around. I do not see them.
I need no more than the crack that is no hair.
What if it was? Whose was it? Why is it in my mug?
Of goes the mind, away
from all that’s wood in my kitchen.
Stories write themselves this way.