tuesday gets roughed up

the bed is pages and pages
and red pens
and cups of coffee

it is too hot for coffee
but it is too slow
to think without it

the cat likes to walk on the pages
(that come easily
sometimes
without thought
but other times
like wisdom teeth
cracked and pulled
from their comfortable places
in my jaw)
in some way
his paws give life to the words
and if he disapproves
he lets me know
by licking them
until they blur.

The only way I have of explaining is by absorbing everything around me- the sound the fan makes during it's relentless oscillations (maybe it wants to be set free. or at least turned off)
the jacaranda trees the come to life unexpectedly and put me to peaceful happy sleep with their scent, the simple, edged rhythms of every song I've heard today, and the desire to put it all together in one single, understandable cluster of words. So here it is:

it is easy to love the sound a guitar makes
but
difficult to explain why
it makes the sound it does.
Is that my job?