Many moons ago, middle school? I was a poet, or at least, I wrote many many poems. Then in college, I was NOT accepted to intermediate poetry writing (was that really the name of the class?) and my poem dreams were shattered, so I turned to plays, where sometimes, in my stage directions, I pretend that I’m a poet, even though I’m not. But my brain still does this thing where it collects and gets stuck on little chunks of words that feel like maybe they could live in a poem, tho I have not actually written one in years. So, just pretend that all of these words are actually a concise and gorgeous poem about a woman who somewhere in her life, during her frantic pursuit of everything, always always always has a chicken thawing for dinner. Maybe it’s in the fridge, maybe it’s in the sink. Maybe it’s under the bed, maybe she’s forgotten about it. But it’s growing warm and asking to be stuffed full of lemons. It’s a future dinner, a sent email, an apron hanging on its peg. As long as her chicken is thawing, somewhere, she’s doing something Right.