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.