friday night prosodic poem finale

the smells are man-made leather and man made misery
and nail polish
I don't reply to emails because the time will post
and everyone will know I am home alone on Friday night

the sounds are other people living
and in my apartment not even an iPod is playing
the guitar and keyboard are finally packed near the closet
with the other instruments long inside the closet

it seems fair to spend an evening alone but I
spend most evenings alone, with Jon, alone
and I wonder what I planned to do with the long homestretch
of childless years
now that it seems that every two I reinvent myself

I nearly pick up the clump of dust with my bare hand
and decide it can wait until tomorrow



on that note and on the cool number of 101 completed posts, donuts at home will be saying aideu an an instrument of public intervention. old posts will remain.