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.