Day 488, October 26, 2021

Slow Day

Some weeks seem particularly long, 
like a dream that you are waiting to end. 
I once imagined an amplifier 
that I played in a showroom in New York, 
and when I finally managed to buy one, 
it was much larger than I remembered, 
much larger than I imagined. 
I remember a refreshing coolness to the air, 
the crisp draw of large piles of dry leaves, 
the wormy dampness within. 
I am already bundling up with a had and gloves. 
It might be a long winter. 
I really should rearrange my living room, 
then my back would not hurt so much. 
When I was little, no televisions were this big. 
This morning, instead of writing fiction, 
I wrote to my doctor. 
I am looking forward to the first snow. 
I want to travel somewhere and sleep in hotel sheets.
Some weeks are just waiting to end.



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