i am ready to write again.

i know it because when i left the house
this morning, the trees had all become wiry people
with the complexions and fingernails i used to recognize
back when i was writing poetry.

and because on my way to the dry cleaners
i finally fit my problems with love
into a metaphor that i can understand.
i decided my love life should in no way resemble
my mounting pile of dirty laundry.
that i'm going to need it to be like a new pair of socks
every morning, if i am to continue getting dressed.

and because when i finally sat down
i stayed there, sinking into the sighing chair,
inventing out loud jumply madly
into the darkest corners to chase
the perfect words out with my machete.