Saturday. We need to buy a recliner today.
Brenda sleeps in hers, in the living room,
watching the television, and hers wore slap out.
It’s sprung. If you recline it, you can’t get back up.
Help me, I’m sitting in my chair and I can’t
get up. I need to take Rowan to the park
and run him. We need to go to the public library.
And the post office. They were closed yesterday for
the holiday. Tomorrow, Sunday, we’ll go to
The Red Bar to hear Dread Clampitt play and
return Rowan. Then Monday, Brenda will go
to work and the long holiday weekend will be over.
I will have the house to myself again.
I will get some work done. I have been babysitting
and running errands. Making conversation. With
a three-year old. He’s a lot of entertainment.
I am boring. All I want to do is work
and sleep. Sleep and work. I don’t even
have wild, screaming sex anymore.
Not with a bang or a whimper.
A grunt. Maybe.
I’m reading about Thelonious Monk.
He had bipolar disorder. He was very seriously ill.
Write my book of daily typewriting scholarship.
The principal investigator of my own researches.