March 13, 2007


I had a poem
in my head when I woke up
this morning. The alarm went off
and I swatted to make it stop.
I slipped out of my white
t-shirt and plaid pajama pants,
tossed on my robe, then listened
to the news while I showered,
shaved and brushed my teeth,
I laid the morning paper out
on the table in front of me as
I drank my coffee, just a little cream.
Arriving at work, I checked my email,
made a few phone calls and watched
the clock till lunch. I ate a sandwich
in my car while listening to some
sports-talk radio in the park, overlooking
the pond. Back at my desk, I shuffled through
some papers covering my desktop calendar,
which I usually uncover just in time
to tear off and reveal
a clean, white month. Some papers
got filed, others tossed in the recycling
box next to my desk. I took a
bathroom break and walked to the
basement to buy a Snickers bar
and a can of Diet Coke. I killed
the last hour of the day reading
biographies of indie rock bands
online. Driving home, I sang
along with an annoying
Top 40 song on the only station
I could find that wasn't playing commercials.
At home, I hung up my shirt and tie,
put on basketball shorts and ate
an orange on the couch in front of
a Seinfeld rerun. After dinner,
I sat at my desk with a
blank legal pad in front of me
and my poem
was gone.

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