At Mattie Furphy House
the writer-in-residence,
having goodbyed the workshop poets
and their unfinished pieces,
At Mattie Furphy House
the writer-in-residence,
having opened
most of the windows,
At Mattie Furphy House
the writer-in-residence,
having arranged
the furniture and books,
knowing they’ll be moved
by other visitors
but pleased with the feel
of it anyway,
At Mattie Furphy House
the writer-in-residence,
having made a coffee
and while it brewed
emptied the water
of Sunday’s book launch
from the squat white urn
because it’s bad for urns
to be left like that, all
wet and pregnant,
At Mattie Furphy House
the writer-in-residence,
having carried her laptop
to the sunshine room,
plugged in
and powered up,
brings her cup
to the round table,
moves her fingers
into the light,
selects the open-source
notebook app,
and enters
the date,
time
and location.