Writing

Maybe it was my T-shirt, maybe that’s why I couldn’t’ write. The T-shirt black with a work crest stenciled on the right breast side, way too run of the mill. I exchanged it for my favorite old tattered green shirt I had many years prior purchased second or third hand in Mexico, rolled the sleeves to mid arm and glanced at the clock. It showed 10:40am. I knew what I was wishing for; I wanted the clock to display something more like 11:50, an acceptable hour to unlock a crisp bottle of beer unbound to conscience. Beer assisted the pen to scribe. Tom Waits in the background and Bukowski lingered as inspiration. The previous evening I’d been reading his works to initiate rhythm of word.