A Writing Life

My writing class is almost over (the last day is tomorrow), and I feel like it has opened up a whole new space for me in terms of writing creatively. Even though I've always, always loved to write, it's often hard for me to find the time or environment to do the work. I'm learning (and still practicing) this new method; I plan to keep practicing it long after the class ends. So look here, from time to time, for bits and pieces creative writing - different formats, imitations, snippets of stories, scenes, memoir, and essays. In the meantime, a poem I wrote for this morning's class:

Senior Year

It’s dinnertime
and I am standing in the kitchen,
stretching my legs.

I am drinking lukewarm water
from a red plastic glass.
It is the only cup that is clean.

I am wearing black nylon shorts and Nikes
with an orange swoosh.
Greek letters dance and play on my shirt.

I hear the train whistle and bend down to touch my toes.
There are crumbs
and dirt on the floor.

You are leaning against the counter,
eating kidney beans
out of the can.

“I put cheese on them,” you say. “It’s good.”
I roll my eyes. I look out the window,
try to see the train.

Your blue Volkswagen
sits on the driveway. One window
is stuck in the down position.

Orange, brown, and yellow leaves
have fallen on the hood
and on the ground around the car.

The worst thing in my life
is student teaching.

“Is anyone ever going to do these dishes?” I ask.
You shrug.
“I’m going to the library,” you say.

I clasp my hands together and push them towards the ceiling.
“Maybe Connie,” I say.
I pull the door open.

New air floods the kitchen
and competes with the fluorescent light
for our attention.

We are here because it is dinnertime:
It is college,
it is 5:00, and I have still not gone running.