This morning there’s a lot of poem stealers rounding the bases.

Everything seems to be getting in the way

of my writing this one.

Well, not really everything,

but a few things feel like everything right now.

Such is the case

with feeling overwhelmingly interrupted, I suppose.

Spotify keeps cutting out repeatedly,

and every time I take a break from the screen

and go to the kitchen to fill my cup with water

I can’t fill it because the dishes in the sink have

shifted back to their pancake stack position

below the tap, and I have to carefully return them

to the edges of the basin, which causes me to lose

my train of felt-thought.

Meanwhile, my body feels like

how I’d imagine a cucumber in a Ball jar

would feel as it was pickling.

I’m sore and heavy,

which I’m accustomed to,

but these body sensations are flowing across

my nerves a little more sloshy than usual,

which is preventing my hippocampus

from finding the internal sticky notes

I left for it, last night, on the refrigerator in my heart

where my poems begin.

Repetitive yawning has been happening

for a little while now.

Enter brain fog, and the little demon screech

piercing from the mists of another

writer’s block moment,

which this morning I’m comparing

to a little cricket-like thought

that runs into the room in unlaced Dr. Martens

and knee socks and makes fun of how

there’s no one to take care of you by shouting no

one, no one, like a jealous critic.

But all is not Lord of the Flies

because this morning I’m trying to comfort myself

by reframing my thinning hair

in a more illustrious light.

In the mirror now I tell myself

I can see a real wave

starting to form where only a side part used to be.