Oh how easy it is to get bogged down in the details of writing. Place a comma here, change a sentence structure there, a million times rewriting what you’ve already written instead of moving forward in the plot.
Life, sometimes, is just like that.
The sun has shifted this time of year.
It blinds me as I descend
the tree-lined hill on school days.
I leave the kids at drop-off and
watch them climb thirteen steps,
book bags bouncing against
Someone has forgotten lunch money,
field trip permission slip,
of that I am sure.
A bus stops short and I slam on brakes, reaching
as if to hold back a child
from breaking through glass.
Life’s instinctive that way, mostly
reflex and religion.
I stop at the grocer’s,
wishing for carambola in the produce aisle.
I settle for plums.
I unpack iceberg and celery,
cans of condensed soup,
then leave a box of crackers right on the counter,
just for fun,
knowing later I’ll put them where they belong,
without a thought.
But if they’re still there come morning,
I’ll shift the route to school,
and take the road that climbs the tree-lined hill,
blinding sun at my back.
I’ll turn across traffic and worm my way into line.
Then I’ll make my way home to eat crackers
from the box I left on the counter.