practice imperfect

I know

my

writing

won’t

be

any

good

tonight.

 

I’m

sitting here

because

I’m

hoping to

ingrain it

into

my

blood cells.

 

The coffee.

 

The hunched shoulders.

 

The pipe.

 

The light.

 

SC with Jay and Dan

on in the background

if it’s still 11 pm.

 

Maybe

I

should add

music

to my routine.

 

Or more weed.

 

Or fireworks.

 

Maybe

I

need to jazz

it

up a bit.

 

Make it

more

exciting.

 

But

I know

my

writing

won’t

be

any

good

tonight.

 

The perfect poem the perfect

moment the perfect woman

the perfect life the perfect

night the perfect poem won’t

be here tonight.

 

Some people grow up

loving the sound of the puck

ringing off the post

before they go to

sleep;

 

I grew up with

loving the sound of

my own silent

voice.

 

What we do to

fill the silence

is, often, as perfect

as the silence.