I remember books of poetry
in which the same title existed
for almost every poem: “Poem”.
Most days I am also reminded
of my confusion regarding Roman
numerals. Sometimes I think,
sure, it’s a day like any other.
But other days I find overwhelmingly
unique. I really enjoy unique. And
puzzle over the notion or fantasy
that unique might be ubiquitous.
Which would eradicate the whole
concept of unique. That’s when it
hits me that I have completely lost
my optimism. I used to brag most
any day about how wonderful life
was, or how terrific this or that
aspect of life. Now it seems an
effort (but at least the effort is
fairly constant?) to simply look
at the bright side. Last night, I
met a chihuahua named Rose.
After a while, Rose hopped up
onto my lap to have a look around.
