Are the beds made? 
Dishes washed?

How about chili for dinner? 

Cornbread? 

Have the kids called?

Still pregnant? 

No miscarriage?

 

Is your dad okay?

Will hospice visit today?

 

Is there another chapter to edit?

A script to revise?

A cover letter to proof?

 

Only then can I write 

for myself,

can I feel my hand

obey as I watch

the ink flow across

the white expanse.

 

Prose or verse 

or list of words:

they are all mine.

 

No praise or payment

of any kind

but testimony

to some inner spark

ignited by a desire

to create something

wholly my own.

 

It is more than enough.