quick poem: Midsummer+1

5.07, or thereabouts, in the afternoon
— it’s too light outside to near evening —
And the strain in my chest might just be the cups of coffee I’ve been drinking.
87% of my waking time these days seems to feature some kind of screen,
Which for the time is nothing surprising
but which doesn’t suit me well.

At 17 I used to look at male roadworkers and feel almost envious
And wish myself a carpenter or a painter of houses, or something like that.
Now, I still don’t have a trade and
words are too many, finickety and proud to hone, repeat and perfect.

I watched Jiro Dreams of Sushi
And, going to bed,
still could not think beyond the pen.