Well. Just when you thought the public shitshow couldn't get any shittier . . .

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I am sitting here on my gray couch, with my black coffee, my white cup and saucer, my red bathrobe, trying to write you a note, trying to move forward into my day--to prep for tomorrow's class, to catch up on some of the housework I won't have time to get to over the weekend, to take a little time to myself as recompense for working all weekend. Instead, I am rattled and jittery, naturally feeling a whole lot of "serves him right," but also so anxious about everyone else in the monster's physical orbit--specifically, Biden . . . What a fucking mess.

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Yesterday was all about dignity, at least on my small demesne. I spent much of the day talking back and forth to the publisher of my next book, making plans for turning in the manuscript, figuring out who would be involved in choosing poems. I made four quarts of sauce from the tomatoes I grew in my little urban kitchen garden. I felt as if I were doing what I was put on earth to be doing: finding words, finding sweetness.

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But the national chaos poisons us all.