Us/Canada Border, 23 October 2010, Approx. 7:30pm

He asks me if I’m a writer,

as he searches the contents

of my backseat,

and I’m unsure of what to say.

“Yeah. I try to be.

Poetry, mostly. Some short fiction, though.

Been working on trying to do more short fiction.”

His response:

“seems like it.”

A conversation to

pass the time

ensues

something about

Cormac McCarthy

and I’m sitting there

not really listening

settling into the idea

of actually being

a writer.