Today my pen is not where it should be
Not chasing over pages of insecurity
The notebook
Has removed itself
From the situation
Of my hands
I laid it down somewhere
While thinking of potato peels, Jane Russell, the plague
It seized its chance,
Soaked into the scenery
So here we are. In a spare unwritten notebook
Leaves left, from 2003
If I believe the page that came before me.
So I triple salchow back to then
When I spent £233 in rent
(a month? a week? In London?)
This punches my brain off-cortex
Sends it spinning down chats recollected.
With older people
The Do You Remembers?, who talk only of when
Fags were two quid
Milk was 10p
A car was shilling
And happiness was free
I look at 2003, at the patterns of words
That came from a woman
Who is WORKING VERY HARD
Trying to find her place in a scene
A woman who I’m very proud to have been.
Stefanie Moore 