Twenty four little hours.

Home again after another long semester, and all I've got is a little poem. It hasn't got a title.

Science writing to come.

That spinning hand

tells me I need to put

my mind into packing,

but I can’t.

(It’s just after

half past 

college)

Instead-

Dinah Washington and

hot, apricot light and

cool

messy sheets.

“You need to write this”-

it’s there somewhere between

the piano notes

in sleepy saxophone voice.

Putting Dizzy books in

Gillespie boxes

stacking them one by one or maybe

four

over

four

When it’s done, I’ll be 

back here again,

with one final piece 

of paper

to pack, a gift for the wall

What a difference

a day makes