Comfort Food

I find that ideas are coming to me and I write more when I'm not in charge of my surroundings. Thoughts spill out when sitting alone at secluded tables at the library, leaning against the tope, padded table, waiting for my doctor to return from downloading my insulin test information, or foot propped up, riding the 'el'. Of course, the other commonality would be general quiet or noises that are more easily blocked out, but I believe its has more to do with the former. That I'm far more adept at producing when the area around me doesn't need to be maintained by me. Now, there's a problem involved in this as all too often I turn where I am into another 'home' and therefore stop writing, stop feeling like I'm not the host or owner of the space, so I'll need to ensure that I don't get too comfortable or stagnant. I can't dub something 'my' table, chair at the doctor's office, stool, or train car. Ownership breaks the process down by making things more complex, if that makes sense. Things start and end with a lack of control with me: a release, a 'downward looking dog', or dark room full of meditation.

"...doors open on the right at Quincy..."

I'd like to join the culture of 'el' travelers;
workers downtown;
coffee/tea drinking from
white, recycled cups I picked up
at the Starbucks or Caribou Coffee at my stop,
which ever has the shortest line;
the flexible, the stand up
to let others sit down,
the observer
of scenes and passengers'
reading or blank stares or cat naps;
watch the students
at draft tables preparing for lessons
at Robert Morris;
counting the stops
between my start
and end at Wells;
ignore the screeching of the fast conductor;
enjoy being swallowed up
on both sides
at the Madison & Wells stop;
a stark breeze, hands tucked under thigh,
cramping my hands as we wait
for transfers at Howard;
and reveling in the Sears Tower
as I sip slowly.