This afternoon I embark on my final voyage of National Poetry Month: a visit to Lisbon, New Hampshire, where I will stay overnight so that I can wake up at dawn all ready to spend a packed day consorting with 7th-12th graders at the Lisbon Regional School. I know these classes will be fun, not least because I'll be working with one of the many great teachers I met at the Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching. Nonetheless, I'm not naturally adept at the itinerant lifestyle; so it's a lucky thing I never turned out to be a rock star because heading down two different roads in the space of a single week feels like craziness to me.
Not that home is peaceful. At the moment, Tom is downstairs dealing with our flooding basement, Crazy Larry Bird is still bashing his head against the window, the boys have used up all the hot water, nobody knows who's in charge of the baseball-practice carpool, and we're reduced to drinking cheap coffee until our food-coop order comes in this weekend.
Still I've actually written two pages of a new essay. So that's something. And my peas are up. That's something too.