Poem: January 4, 2026

I think; therefore, I am

A pencil in my hand, 

pressed between my fingers

and thumb. I feel it there

as I scratch across the paper

and pause to listen to

the words that seem to come

from somewhere both me

and not me, and the pine desk

is solid, and my shoulder

solidly aches and has, I think,

for days. For Heaven’s sake,

I think, of course this is real,

but maybe I am mistaken.

Who knows what to make

of this red and worn sweatshirt,

the shadow the desk lamp creates,

my cold hands, the hum-um

of the washing machine and fan

in the room I assume is still there?