Planting peas this weekend and, I promise, reading more Winter's Tale with Paul. April is hell for poets, in case you didn't already know from your own experience. That gimmicky idea "National Poetry Month" really does work like a charm: everyone schedules their poetry gigs in April. Perhaps we should invent subgenre months so we can spread out the jobs--say, March could be National Ode Month and February could be National Surrealism Month. In any case, when I'm not driving 2 hours to do a gig, I'm home doing all the laundry that multiplied in my absence. April is National Dirty Clothes Month.

Dinner tonight: I have no idea, but Tom and I are eating it alone. The boys have been invited to go see their friend Sam play a Nubian extra in a high school production of Aida (the Elton John version, I'm sorry to say), which leaves the two of us with several childless hours. I hope we don't waste them all talking about the boys. I've noticed that's an unfortunate side-effect of being temporarily son-less.