... because my work is my poetry

At my desk, as my workday closes,  
I push away client files  
and settle in to write a bit of verse.  
   
"As the sun sets  
over the blue and white balcony,  
I crouch to jam paint-flecked cotton cloth  
into the cracks around each straining door.  
I never entirely successfully  
shore up against winter, but then,  
I have come to love the sound  
of mittens rasping on my keyboard,  
of wind howling under the door,  
and the ancient oil heater  
clicking as it fails, and cools ..."  
   
Blah blah blah.  
   
You see?  Nothing comes.  
Nothing does, these days.  
My pen always responded to urgent disaffection,  
and though I have passion for my life and for my work,  
I am content.  So, verse has gone.  
   
Don't mistake me, this contentment doesn't come quietly.  
Every day, they file into this room,  
bringing death, anguish, despair ...  
Every day, their unfinished stories scrape the walls raw.  
In the old days, I'd have tried to fix that.  
Now, I give up to the longing, and take in the loss.  
Here, I'll write it down for you:  
"1.  Move closer.  Do not run like a bitch.  
 2.  Surrender.  Immediately, and utterly.  
 3.  Whatever comes, breathe.  Especially out."  
   
As I put down my pen, I take a moment  
to again forgive the brutal price paid  
for that small wisdom.  For my bravery.  
And for your love.  
   
These days, I lead a little life.  
I carry no briefcase.  My passport is out of date.  
I am no longer recognised on the street.  
Gathering my coat I make my way,  
looselimbed and easy shouldered to my car ...  
(if you knew what it took to drive,  
and to walk outside alone, and easy, you'd understand  
the pride behind the indulgence of that line)  
... and as I tread orange and blue leaves  
into puddled cobblestones,  
loving Autumn's threat of winter,  
it's promise of spring, I realise again  
that I do not need to be free.  
   
I will come back to this cold sanctuary,  
this experiment in hope, tomorrow.  
Not because I am still too afraid to do anything else.  
No.  I will come back because to show up for these people  
every day, is enough.  
   
It is my work.  It is my poetry.  It is enough.