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.
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