London

Losing time
Traveling against the sun
Dropping me into another place
Where I begin to write

The loss provides the time
But not the words
Sleeping becomes work, a sentence
And I accept it in order to see
This other world I know nothing of
Called morning
When people rise and meet the light
Achieve things before 9 am
Something I only do to travel
Or not be late
For the afternoon

I worry that if not for time zones
My pile of words at year’s end
Would be as thin as the hope of
White employed U.S. citizens
Who play the California lottery
But I travel
And my clock still takes some time
To find directions
The failure of zombie mode
Is the gain of my notepad

Now, what is rummaging about?

After my writing sabbatical
I’m full of other’s words
Careful not to drop them here
Like a plagiarist’s sweat
Remembering the things I wanted
To write about  then
And stole the time away
For selfish things, survival…
Deciding if this is the place to dump them
Or just a jumbled outline, a things-to-do note
Of a family’s joy
The sadness of decay

A desperate grasp for roots
The celebration of being busy
An intervention of tragedy.

Off and running then…