Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer

Writing is solitary, an act for a sun-riddled Monday afternoon
or perhaps in a bathtub with some coffee above the tiled floor.
There is the pencil draft where the hand smudges are as fertile
as the hundred-dollar words. Ball roller ink serves command
just as a disciplined soldier. Fountain pens spurt their delicacies
in fine strokes or unexpected gobs. This should all be done alone.

Typing, too, is an isolated act, but there are always onlookers,
voyeurs to your secrets. Chats are open, cameras up. Ethereal
images projected just next door—peering through windows.
Distraction is glance away, but you still come back to the words
generated after restless cursor blips.

What to write when naked in the bathtub, bubbles doing their
best to cover? What will the coffee tell us about our pruned selves?

What of the words under the sterile sun, light blinding off of
the already-bleached notepad page? Will the long grasses and
industry ants reveal some secret if I wait long enough?

Keys don’t make this easier.

No, writing is a solitary act, resistant to attempts by
bubbles and insects. Protected from sun and coffee.

Deaf to clicks and clacks of separate letters and spaces.

6/7/10