What It's For

Someone asked what I do.

I write, I said.

They nodded. Moved on to the next person.

I stood there holding my drink

for longer than was reasonable.

On the train home, the notebook

was half-visible through the open zipper of my bag,

getting jostled sideways with the car,

a pen loose beside it.

I tried the usual answers:

because it clarifies.

Because the alternative is worse.

Because I can't not.

None of it held up.

Not on a Tuesday at eleven,

in a seat that smelled like someone else's commute.

What I found instead—

the answer I didn't want—

is that I do it because I need

to have done it.

Not the doing. The having-done.

The record of attention paid

when no one was asking me to pay it.

When the person at the party

nodded and moved on.

When the train jolted

and the notebook slid further into the bag

and nobody noticed

and it didn't matter

and I was going to write about it anyway.

That's the answer.

It's smaller than I wanted.

It fits in the bag.