She sits at the dining room table

Surrounded by books, drinking instant coffee and writing poetry.

The words surround her and smell like vanilla, curling between

The wisps of steam rising from her cup.

She clicks her pen and bites the tip, turning on classical music

To get into the rhythm of a sonnet— the romance of iambic pentameter,

But slowly switches to a synthetic bass beat and drips into free verse,

The music slipping in and out. Sometimes lyrics slip in, but she highlights them

To remember to take them out.

Her hands on the keys tip tap lightly, making music, catching at rhythms.

She changes to a smooth whisky acoustic that reminds her of her grandmother

Sitting on the front porch, reminiscing with old friends, drinking gin

By the tumbler and stumbling all over themselves laughing.

It was a different time back then, and she sinks into their words, curled upon the

Floor at her grandmother’s feet, feeling the sharp press of bony frail knees against her

Spine. She braces against them and lays her head on her raised knees—

She takes a sip of her coffee, burning her tongue, burning the roof of her mouth,

Feeling the heat slide down her throat, pooling deep so deeply into her belly.

She sighs, smiles, and turns on the classical again, hearing the anxious trickle of

Piano keys, striking with the arrogance of talent, the bravado of brass horns, the hubris of

Percussion, the whistling of the wind, creating a picture. She sees the picture, pauses in her writing—

She can understand the appeal of lazy afternoons, all around her summer is embracing fall and she is wearing a sweater, leggings, and slippers.

She sits at the dining room table

Surrounded by books, drinking instant coffee and writing poetry.