My Process

She sits there

Chewing on the end of her pencil

Staring out the window at the stoplights.

What should she write about this time?

Perhaps about when she has a dream?

About her grandmother?

About an alcoholic?

These are tired subjects

Yet she can't think of any others.

She must pay attention to line breaks

Possibly include some appealing alliterations

Maybe even some excitingly serene juxtapositions.

She must focus on the words that she uses

To the tone with which she writes.

She must concentrate on detail

Such as if she were writing about her ukulele

Sitting against the wall

Leaning at a fifty-five degree angle

Somewhat tilted towards the ceiling.

But no, those are details that do not matter.

She must concentrate on how the ukulele looks in this light,

How the dark wood resembles the same wood that she adores,

How there is an accumulating dust, which pains her with guilt,

And which consequently causes her all the 

More to desire to play right now.

Yet she must realize that that was an atrocious line break,

And she must start all over again with a new story.

She has the power to write well

Yet she cannot concentrate.

Those forever changing lights

On nineteenth avenue 

Serve as a beautiful distraction.

But she must finish this piece 

For it is due in a day.

She must get to the point 

Where she will be able to

Reread

     Revise

          Repeat

She stares out the window once again

Only to realize that those changing lights,

Those green, yellow, and red lights

Hold the answer to her problems.

Yet as she looks back to her computer,

Only one thought comes to her mind:

Where do I start?