Two days ago I was on the patio early and decided to write about the experience. Yesterday I started the poem shortly after 6:00 a.m. and called it a poem a little after 4:00 p.m. I’m not sure it’s a good poem, but it might be. I know I spent ten hours working on it through ten drafts.
The bad thing is that I had no particular reason to write the poem. It isn’t part of anything I’m currently working on. I essentially fiddled away much of a day on an impulse. I suppose the good thing is that I have a new poem, which may or may not be good, that now exists and didn’t before and would never have if I hadn’t fiddled away a day to make it.
What’s with us anyway? (Don’t answer that if you can’t be nice.) Man, I hope my M.O.W. doesn’t read this!