Missing my friends tonight. Frankly, I think I’ve been holding it together respectably these past three weeks. That said, it comes in waves, and today the surf’s up. That is exactly the type of stupid phrasing for which Lorie would tease me.
Don’t really want to write another sad poem. Instead, I’m going to rely on a trick from earlier in the year: The Marilyn. Okay, a trick from earlier in the year and from sporadically across the months when I deem it necessary. Whose to blame if it is frequently necessary? Not me, surely.
This Monday has gotten longer than I intended. So, a fast poem. Again.
The Ecstasy of Communication
All the awards are going to the French this year, as though they had invented the pout and finance, as though they had the capital in paintings and meals. But there is something more French, something beyond exotic and accented with us. It has taken eight years, maybe, for you to learn not to hug me while I’m doing something, and I know the exact inflection with which not to announce that I know nothing of the score of that college team. A sigh or shoulder twitch, or bounce of a foot, this is the ecstasy of our communication. In the meetings of our job, we can together mock our colleagues with eyebrows hitched up, we can make caricatures of them, and of the news, and of our daughters. Oh, how our shoulder blades talk in resistance, at night, oh, what and arch that talks loud.
It was quite a Monday for me. Had to resort to The Marilynn. I don’t think this is necessarily a totally sexy poem, but I think I’m okay with it. Happy Monday. Night.