coffee

Slept two hours last night. That's a lie. Slept about six, but the point is that I've been writing furiously, tearing up paper like a rabid squirrel. This morning the sky glowed pink. Liquid cotton candy swelling into a big, sugary bubble. I had to settle my excitement with a sobering mug of bitter coffee. Half a dozen hours at work permits no time for writing, little time for creative thinking when I'm busy answering people's questions about Fiorocet and Viagra and Bisoprolol and Metformin and Atenolol and Levothyroxine and... Grab the faxes. Answer the phone. Smile at the red faced man huffing and puffing over the counter, ready to punch someone over his co-pay. Hurry to the window and stand in a blast of cold air while someone writes a check - slowly. Count dusty little pills by fives. Recount the narcotics. Scrape them along the green tray with a spatula into a little rubbery vial. Pause. Look at the vial. The vial the color of an amber stone. A honey-hued vessel. Yes, it reminds me of those canyons I wrote about last night. Those rusty-walled canyons cupping the rivers I left unfinished.