Challenge: write a list poem.
The woman who cuts my hair is moving to Washington. The weather app tells me that today will be mostly cloudy. Again. My writing hand is gnarling up with arthritis and I dreamed last night I was once again reading books about T. S. Eliot. This house needs a vigorous cleaning. The dog is losing track of time. When I scan my brain for ideas I don’t find anything and if given the choice between going to a party or staying home, I will choose home most of the time. The flowers are up in Chicago but here it seems they’ll never break through, that the ground will stay frozen forever, the world here smote with another ice age, and we’re going to be stuck waiting for warmth that never comes, that our promised rebirth has been rescinded, reconnection canceled. It’s not even 5:30 AM, my windows glazed frigid with darkness, and the damn dog insists I take her out.