Clocked Out

and writing now, though still at work. I've had such great ideas lately—last lines, or phrases, or titles—everything just bubbling in my head and I think "this is such a good idea, I know I'll remember it" and I don't. I'm thinking of all the little poems-that-never-were out there, in the land of smoke and honey, that won't be written because of my procrastination.
I've read a handful of poems, too, by other people that I think are so much like ones I've written, only of course they are better, being in the New Yorker and all. I grow poem-paranoid, think "hmmm I wonder if they somehow read my poem X to get their poem Y." Which is, I know, the fatal flaw of hubris. Though this is less like true hubris, I think, than just plain crazy thinking. But it's nice to have these kindred-spirit moments, to read something and know that maybe someone thought the same way or felt the way I did, if only for a second.
I'd ask how you are doing, but you aren't telling, are you?
Memorizing a good deal, too. I'm determined to build myself a mental library filled with Dickinson. She's very easy to memorize, but her lines yield new fruit with each repetition.
I wish I could get all my ducks in a row without feeling that one was a bit crooked, then going over to check, tripping over three other ducks on the way over so that, in the end, my row has disappeared and is just random ducks.

Monday Night Blues

I wish I had a shiny mouth harp
'cause I'd sing me some Monday night blues.

dfja; coffee?

I was smack in the middle of a hallmark-inspired dream when Cleo so rudely pawed my door. I was laying in fields of clover with Wilson and House, talking about poetry. Together, they make the perfect man. I loved House but would die before I told him because he'd just mock me. Then I found out that my sister's baby (I feel superstitiously like jinxing this if I type it out) was going to be stillborn and I was sobbing but went about my work (I worked at the hospital, I guess—I had a white jacket but I knew I was no doctor). I go to see her, and House is there. He's operating on the baby—he's removed it from the womb. He says "it's a boy" and I'm crying insanely, repeat "It's a boy, it's a boy." He's somehow got the baby's heart beating, and I feel then as though I've witnessed a miracle, because it was not alive a few minutes ago. An orderly says the police are coming, that they are coming for House for doing this, and yet again I'm crying because it just seems like the supreme act of love for him to have done this. He looks at me and tells me to put the finger in the baby's mouth, quickly, to get the baby to begin sucking. I do, and the baby turns from blue to pink. The police disappear, and I am amazed and worshipping.

parakeet

why should anyone feel grief for a dying parakeet? why should anyone drive home, talking to a sister for 45 minutes who knows about the dying bird, but not a word, and me talking about tomato juice and poetry.
then I drive up to the house, after a day of snow, thinking to ask if Cleo's been out in it yet, wondering about her reaction and whether or not she romped. and i walk into the garage and my mom is sitting there and she says "Rachel" in that tone I know—that tone that says "I have something really, really bad to tell you so prepare yourself," and I said "what?", panicked, and she said "Lady Fig got out of her cage today and I think she's dying."
i couldn't go in the house. i couldn't see that little bird crushed and struggling to breathe. my excitement at what the dog thought of the snow turned in an instant into total grief, and blame, because I saw a few days ago that the latch on the bird cage door was loose and thought I'll mention it to dad, and he'll fix it, and forgot.
and the worst feeling is, after walking in—after telling my dad to put the cage and the bird somewhere outside of the house--anywhere, just not in the house, and I don't know why I felt that way--but after walking in, Cleo was so happy I was home. She ran to my bedroom door with her big teddy bear and I slammed the door in her face--I caught her in the door and she cried. And I felt so awful, so guilty for hurting this dog, who killed my parakeet. She did what dogs do. Dogs like birds, and not as friends. So I opened my door and Cleo jumped on my bed and began suckling on her teddy bear and now she's lying on her back, her legs akimbo and she doesn't know that she killed a living thing I loved, and it is impossible to blame her for it.