A short piece about the need for constancy of process in (my) writing.


And I Write

I wash a lot of dishes and I write,
make the bed and scrub the john
and write
I cook and walk the dog, look out windows,
change the bulbs in reading lamps,
walk around the joint a while,
smoke a cigarette and think,
maybe take the tram to town
But sometime in the day I write

It’s what I came to Prague to do,
leaving life behind, an unmade bed
There’s compulsion in my orderliness,
born out of guilt and changing horses
that kicks my focus in the butt
It may be just a letter, poem
or e-mail to a friend,
barely enough to call my work
But sometime in the day I write

Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection

THE SMELL OF TWEED
AND TOBACCO

available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.