Poem: Art Does Not Wait

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My art studio
doubles as the dining room table.
Paints stacked
in the corner of the closet.
Poems written
in the wee hours of the night
when everyone is asleep.
Sketches hastily drawn
between doctor's appointments
and daughter's music lessons.
The piano book
still on chapter two
the guitar out of tune
the strings gathering dust.
It feels like splitting time
between demanding lovers
running from one room to the next
and not devoting enough minutes
for a proper relationship.
But it is worth the hassle
for a moment of peace
and thinking all is right
with the world.

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