Old School Journal
I used to write in a journal, riding the bart in San Francisco
The feel of the pencil, the motion of the car, the
Rush of an opposite passing train.
The silent thoughts of the passengers and
The 1/2 second eye contacts.
The freedom to write and erase,
not knowing if it was a poem or a story
or if anyone would ever read it.
No phone to answer no person to text
nothing connecting me to the external
but my mind and the crisp white pages
between a weathered brown leather cover.
I wrote things like this.