|(dramatic reenactment of my |
morning wakeup time.)
and then 'getting up to read till 5:30.' It was like Stations of the Insomnia around here, the tossing, the turning, the remorse over too much, perhaps, cold medicine, and whatnot and thus and so. Blah, is all I can say about this sequence of the 'am I asleep yet?' stratagem.
However, after I got up at 7:30-ish, rehearsed to the historian this sorry little set of events for which he himself was blissfully asleep, more power to him, I ate a bowl of shredded wheats of the frosted variety, and read some of the paper, and saw him off to work. Then, I brushed my teeth and found my way back to bed.
That's when you, sleeping in till eleven, became today's bff, and how mighty and awesome you were and are. I am not overstating the case, not in the slightest.
Still finding you delicious in retrospect at 10:30 p.m.,
Dear my new shoes,
|(Not my actual shoes.)|
Let me be specific: first, you have height. Second, you are sculptural. Third, you are bronze. Fourth, you are leather. Fifth, you are shockingly comfortable, for sculptural shoes with height. Sixth--and this is not more important than the fifth specific, but it rivals the fifth specific--you make everything I wear look instantly more magnificent.
You are the kind of purchase that makes me worry about what will happen when you wear out. I know it's ridiculous, but I kind of want to buy a back up pair.
I won't, but it will be hard,
Dear revising my manuscript in perfect quiet,
|(in the interests of full disclosure,|
my actual new manuscript is not this fat.)
days. How poetic you seem, so much that you lead me to say things like 'how you have gleamed from far off' and use words like 'desideratum' and phrases like 'my work worn days.' How, in a word, I have yearned for you.
Today, after I woke up at eleven, there you were: my manuscript, waiting for me in the quiet, with my notes dispersed all over you, the record of my many voicings of you, potent but silent.
You did not disappoint.