I photographed these bolts of fabric at Liberty a department store in London when I was there a couple of years ago with Pat Devanney and Kay Morgan. Pat's the one who asked me for a poem about a place we've traveled together, and out of my many options I chose a moment at the Tate Modern in London, Kay in the gift shop and Pat and I being as British as we could, drinking tea. It's not possible to sum up our long, rich, wonderful friendship, but it felt good to try. The poem--all of it--is posted here. You'll find a little of it below.

At the Tate Modern

I was excited

about Louise Bourgeois’

giant spider Maman, and you

were excited about the fabrics

at Liberty where that day

you’d picked up bolts,

laid them down,

and I’d trailed behind thinking we’d spent

the same morning

in New York a year ago

except there you’d bought raw silk

instead of linen.

But that afternoon at the Tate

I said I was sixty,

and you said, No,

fifty-nine. Recited my birth date, added

the current year.  Do the math, you said, 

smiling...

The thing that's heartening about the Tupelo 30/30 is that it reveals to me that I can, in fact, write a poem in a day if I just don't allow myself to weasel out of it. No whining that I should really call an old friend, or walk the dog again or vacuum the rug. No sudden determination to reorganize my files or binge watch movies on Netflix. No. First I have to write the poem. If only I believed this level of devotion would follow me into the rest of my life. 

Meanwhile, I'm hungry for prompts. My brother and a woman mysteriously referring to herself as "Winter" have come through for the moment, but I like a good solid backlog. My donations page is here. Leave a note either here or there.