Spring is long gone. Summer is (almost) here.

The ceiling fan creaks.

The heat is oppressive.

The AC has its mood swings, like it does every year.

It’s passive-aggressive.

Like pretty much every other thing in my life.

But this summer, I know better.

I won’t crib. No. I won’t

I have made peace.

I will look inside.

I will be a shrink’s delight.

I will embrace poetry.

I will recite Neruda in my head.

I will recall Frida K’s lovers in sequence.

I will think of Liz Taylor and her husbands, not in a row.

I will think of the random, and the real.


April 13, 2016