The crimson notebook,
thin silver spiral
of metal like tin
curling down its spine,
lays flat on the rectangular
breakfast table
where I sip morning coffee
and create poetry
each dawn from the tangles
and twists of my life
held in the gleaming arms
of these myriad days
and nights of mine.
Its red cover is rumpled
and cracked,
wrinkled color
of fire and blood,
sex and stop signs
encloses multiple pages
fat with poems
of a few scrawny lines
and of almost epic proportion
composed these past
many months
of disciplined
daily writing.
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