First Draft


Up at four while it’s still dark, I tiptoe to my
writing table, pencils sharpened, at the ready.
I work quickly, no time to think about line
breaks, just get the words down

before the chatters, punctuation police,
agents of the OED show up with coffee cups
of worry, donuts filled with doom.
They poke my back or push me

out of my chair. Come here! There’s laundry!
Mail! The critic on my shoulder thinks
he’s encouraging. You call that a poem?
The others yak about hurricanes,

what celebrity is bound for jail. Everything’s
an emergency to distract me from blurting
the truth onto the page, secrets I don’t know
until I write them.

I steal that hour from all intruders,
too early even for the dog,
who stays in bed, moves only to creep
into the warm spot on my pillow.