with SportsCenter on in the background,
I work from a kitchen called home,
where shadows of trees come to meet my peripheral,
animating the counters and dirty dishes.
a placemat under laptop,
because the table is nice and new,
and not mine, so I don't want my bracelets
to scratch it up as I type UX/UI bullshit.
paying the bills is boring,
but writers have more opportunity
to make money these days than ever before,
and I am lucky to be a working writer.
after all the bartending and floral arrangements,
it is good to help edit copy about healthcare
or tags about food production facilities;
afford me this for tattoos and nice dinners.
I hear footsteps in the apartment upstairs,
and I wonder what they do for a living,
when the world coming through the windows is unforgiving,
and dreams don't make sense to wallets.
it's the simplest solutions
to the most difficult of problems:
do what you love, even if there are parts
that aren't fun or forever.
With the next edit, I sip my iced coffee,
and call the boss to walk him through
how Google docs works, but he still doesn't get it,
and he double spaces after every sentence.