I forgot a pen when I walked out

here to the garage where I write. 

Too many books than I could read,

my underused notebook, and no pen. 

The room smells of mildew and furniture polish. 

There is insulation on the rug under my desk,

dropped from the ceiling by some foraging creature. 

The whole room needs a good wash

and I need a pen. 

It might be wasted effort to clean a room

that stays dirty. Futile. Never-ending. 

Turns out I have a pen tucked

in an outside pocket of the heavy coat I wear

when I sit out here with the creatures and dirt

and cold in this garage to write.