The Writer’s Apron


Each day as she wakes

and fastens an old apron around her waist

Stained from years of use, its deep pocket,

almost threadbare and ripped

holds treasures of a lifetime

Unseen by casual observers,

it’s the receptacle of her creations

For, as she meanders through each day,

it’s the receptacle for her metaphors and rhymes

Watching from her small corner of the word,

she gathers snippets of conversation and

snapshots of the strangers crossing her path

Burying them deep inside that pocket, she waits patiently,

letting them frolic with with phrases not quite formed in her mind

At times, her heart sings as the words coming together

cavort in playful dancing, filling that pocket to overflowing

The picture of that man, cradling his sweet baby

Laughter, filling the small cafe as long-lost friends reunite

Children, running across the playground with complete abandon

Morsels of all that is good in this place that is here and everywhere

The universal truths that bind all us together come together in a lovely turn of phrase

At times, her heart pounds, stricken with an anger that is palpable,

as that old pocket suffocates with emotion that threatens to burst the seams

The husband and wife, no longer connected, drawing swords in a duel of spiteful words

The evening news that spews injustice as so-called entertainment

War, suffering, cruelty, and strife

Fragments of the little piece of evil that looms here and everywhere

The common thread that exists to document demise in a calculated rant

At times, her heart is heavy, filled with sorrow too much to bear

tearing at the fabric of that pocket with scalpels of despair

That old man pushing an empty shopping cart across a busy highway

Tears for the young girl called home to die

The world, the world, tangled in a convoluted series of tragedies

Snippets of suffering, unjustified and seemingly unstoppable, here and everywhere

The ugly truth marring even beautiful sonnets that were meant to soothe

Each evening as she retires, weak and worn

she pulls off that apron and hangs it on the hook

Weary from years of habitual observation,

she needs a respite from that bursting pocket

An evening of dreamless sleep will bring relief

so that in the morning she is ready

to slip on that old apron with the deep pocket



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