my time

I haven't thought of writing in a while, then out of nowhere someone says, let me read you.  Hesitantly I hand over a one or twenty pieces, which to my minds eye can only be described as corny.  It's my corny baby, so my heart stops beating, and a stupid tense grin holds my face.  After a few, they stop.  Repeats a  few lines from each that they like, and I am held captive by them just wanting me.  my work.  No Maya or Derek Walcott but it might have just been, because they remembered phrases I myself had forgotten I wrote.  I am a writer.  Hidden agendas aside, the importance of taking a moment to rekindle a smouldering ember is not lost to me.  They will be remembered in my time.