Side Effect, Poetry

I am a cow. I need a morning milking and an evening milking. I am writing in my notebook each day so I don't cut off my head. Side effect, poetry

She lives in the ghetto she loves. She tries to get going before the sun. She writes standing up so she has a view of the dumpsters, drug dealers and prostitutes. She loves to have things marinating, simmering, incubating, fermenting, percolating, baking, or soaking while she works so at least something tangible is being accomplished. Her work grows out of her compulsion to write in notebooks. She loves to write letters and walk her dog all over town, stopping to listen to people tell their story.

Me:
I get up at 6 and work nine hours
Come home and cook dinner for five
When the dishes are done I go up to my attic
And if I am able, if my mind is alive
I write one or two pages, until the muse cowers
“I’m tired,” she cries, “I don’t feel ecstatic!”
It’s enough for one day, so I go to bed then
Tomorrow I’ll start over again.
-JF