If only at first I could have remembered
the word clever. Nothing seems to find its way
through the fog of exhaustion. Except this
swollen ankle I’m getting most evenings
(note to self: a] get checked again for
diabetes; b] you’re not a hypochondriac
except on purpose; like in character).
Your secret handshake has a funny way
with words. Too cute. Plus I
spent all night translating the Greeks.
To quickly move from one thing to the
next. This can be a nice diversion when
giving a sermon. Unless repeated too often.
It’s a shell game. You can’t lead a man to the
right walnut without teaching him how to get there
(which requires learning how to forget, right?).
Many things. I threw myself a birthday party
Saturday night. Lots of folks danced until 5:30am.
Most with various intoxicants. Then hand-in-hand
up my hill. Which was the highlight of my walk,
if not my late 30s. Or the magic replay in my
head says we’re really a couple.
The lovely talk on the sofa makes it a boyfriend
collage. These things make a lot of money in
the art world of life. And money isn’t the object.
I mean it’s not an object. I meant it more like
firewood or kindling. The kind that gives you a
quick fortuitous heart attack at seventy-one on a
winter morning when you’d like to use your fireplace.
