On the eave of my old house,
there is an eyehook
with a thin frayed string.

This vestigial clothesline
once bridged notion
and habit.

I thought damp towels
would dry well beneath the Texas sun
but the good habit never took.
(The electric dryer feasted
easy on the power grid.)

If consciousness makes itself at home in the mind,
then surely it must have its untidy spaces:
dryrot wood—
old scaffolding of formal education.
mothbait clothing—
opinions pruned from identity.
dustcoat tools—
indulgences we wrestle away into storage
when tomorrow is more attractive than today.

Inspiration caught me distracted.
I opened the door and, mistaking it for need,
I caught a downtown bus to seek
warmth from an autumn porter.
(It moved to another neighborhood,
blessed a guitar picker with a hook.)

That was the day I bought that jazz album,
instead of finding something clever to do.
I don’t recall opening my wallet,
just the rush of holding something new.