I mean, really, I wouldn’t be sitting here
on a Saturday morning,

having shlepped snacks and prompts
and, heaviest of all, me out of bed

to sit at one end of this four-table
rectangle and put my fingers to

the keyboard earlier than they’re
used to if it weren’t for you.

I mean, really. I do it to watch you
all write, hear you scratch on a page

as though your lives depend on it
(which, in a way, they do),

so focused, spinning syllables and words
and random punctuation through the air

like confetti, which falls upon me,
on everyone. And, it lands on my skin.

If I stick out my tongue, I taste it, swallow it,
the best of you becoming part of me.

I swear, if someone looked at our DNA,
we’d share some of it, the kind funneled

into a category marked “writer.”
Which makes us deeply related.

Your essence lives in me, is what I want
to say, in the best possible way,

and yes, I’ve told you this before,
and I’ll tell you again because

I mean, really.

•••

(For all those who write with me—in the actual loft or the virtual one—
with my love and gratitude. And, as always, to Katie McCleary, who
created the lovely space for writers and gave it to me.)