my cat sits in front of the computer screen
as i write down this poem,
she licks her paw,
then scratches her head,
then chews on her nails because my wife just clipped them
and my cat’s natural instinct is to make them sharp again,
but she’s not paying attention to what i’m writing,
she doesn’t even know it’s about her
this might just be my perception,
but i feel like i’m a better poet when
i’m sleep deprived
perhaps it’s the lack of self-editing i do,
perhaps it’s because it feels like a barbell is pushing into my chest
and i need to write this last thought, last sentence, last stanza
before i go to sleep,
whenever that will be,
i like to treat sleep like a treat
that i can only do when i’ve written so many words,
and in such a way that they’re semi-coherent,
this poem might not be all that great,
but at least finishing it finally means i can go to bed
i really hope you
haven’t been waiting for me to continue,
because if i’m being perfectly honest,
i have no idea what’s going on half the time,
strike that,
i never know what’s going on,
this is just being made up
as i go, with little direction
as to where it’s all headed,
but if we’re being perfectly honest,
and i do feel like i can trust you, somewhat,
i don’t think
any-one is driving this ship,
or perhaps the map
got lost at sea, long, long ago
Fred Aiken Writing 