in the middle of winter
and you become a human slug
moving about
the house
leaving a trail of you
behind
as slugs do.
clothes and shoes.
crumbs from cinnamon toast.
shards of christmas cookies
underfoot.
books
and newspapers.
a half empty cup of coffee
or tea
strewn about..
scraps of notes written down,
the beginning
of some
epic poem you might
write, if you find the time.
is it day or night?
who's to know these things
when the phone is quiet,
when there is
no ring.
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