T-minus ten. It can wait, then, run it over again,
my reservations. Housekeeping please report
too tall towers of linens by the pound, bleach by the quart.
My elbow an invaluable tool—smells of fragrant rain
(that can be gotten rid of). Pa, predicting each stop on the train
in my young years, when no problem was the insurmountable sort.
Lately the work run into itself, sux, but what else can be said—
The urge largely there, still, to leave it all.
Remember, I still have not written Paul.
Most projects, dreams, remaining small. In one, art was dead
and Shin tried to cram between me & beb in bed.
Everything else was beyond recall
which is why I find little peace in dreams.
Arriving greasy & untucked in the late hour, curled in a ball.
Settling into another color of sweater, frayed seams,
tough brown boots to weather the brunt of fall.
Out again on the sparse 95, my nightly course.
Now in my twenty-third year, nearing twenty-fourth.
