Dear Reader,
Word Raccoon has taken down yesterday’s red string from the board. Thank goodness. I don’t know what she was thinking, hot tempered little animal.
She looked at the index cards this morning, sighed a very small raccoon sigh, and swept them all into a drawer before I even had to ask her to.
The desk is now clear of everything but a Coke Zero; the rain sings outside.
Dear Reader, sometimes the world gets too loud and distant; all of life’s uncertainties gang up on WR and she feels deserted by hope. The weight of things, so many things, makes her sharp when she wants nothing but to be soft.
WR apologizes for the literary slaps in yesterday’s post. To make up for it, she went deep into the bottom drawer and pulled out a draft she’s been hoarding. I told her it was too raw, too unfinished. I told her I was saving it for publication. She didn’t care. That’s for the birbs, she tells me. Don’t you mean birds? I ask. Poor thing can’t spell.
But she does like a sharp-dressed man. Back away from Father John, WR!
She’s so funny.
Here’s hoping you like the poem. I wrote it last year.
Paging Father John Misty
Kind Sir,
Please fling your arms
out from your sides,
those long levers
of pleasure.
Consecrate
at your leisure
my cathedral.
Sigh us a tune,
our salvific muse.
And now, WR, I think I will invest in a roll of duct tape for the days you need it! I imagine everyone who has met you would be relieved at that.
Drema