This morning I taught 6th graders to write poetry using a technique called surreal juxtaposition, which I explain to them just means putting weird things next to each other. We played a game that resulted in phrases like: the frozen armchair of bent jurisprudence, and whirling skateboards of desperate self-discipline. That took 42 minutes. Then I bought gas and a cup of coffee and went to a friend's house to get a few more details from her in order to write her son's obituary. This was our second day talking about him, so I was only there for an hour and a half, and only twice did I burst into tears.

I came home, answered three phone calls and eight e-mails, and typed up my notes, trying not to forget anything she told me and to make the paragraphs and quotations sound as though they belonged to each other. I wove in the thoughts this boy's dad had e-mailed to me as well, read the whole thing to my friend over the phone, made some corrections, printed it out, and delivered it to The Union so it would make tomorrow's paper. All of that took about three hours, well, four if you count drive time, buying another cup of coffee and an egg-salad sandwich, and preventing several cats from sitting on the keyboard. I also spent a couple of minutes not looking at the huge pile of laundry on my bedroom floor and the revolting conditions in the bathroom.

Then I brought a copy of the obituary back to my friend's house, gave her a quick hug and hopped in the car again to drive to the hospital, where I teach writing to cancer patients. Now I'm sitting at a long formica table, watching my students (some with their own hair, some with wigs or hats on) do a 15-minute freewrite on who their heroes are. I've already had them do warm-ups: writing about water, fire, their favorite shoes, and where their grandfathers came from. Today, I love these people more fiercely than usual, which I guess is where writing obituaries will get you.

At the end of this two-hour class I'll go home and feed the cats, water the parched and gasping yard, and probably eat two tomatoes out of my hand for dinner. There isn't anything else palatable in the house that I know of, except ice cubes. I may or may not manage to stay awake until 8:30.

Why am I telling you this? People are so mystified by what a poet does all day. This isn't a typical day, of course, it's more packed with fresh grief than usual, includes a little more driving. But it's in the ballpark. Just so you'll understand when you next walk up to me on the street and say "Have you written any poems lately?" and I smile and say, "No, not lately."