Friday morning. A thin rain tapping at the windows. The muffled roar of an airplane taxiing into takeoff, a few miles away.

I woke up this morning convinced that I should tell you all about what the cat did when I got home last night. So I wrote that tale, just a minute ago, then realized that the paragraph was dumb and why would you care so I deleted it. First idea, bad idea, as Allen Ginsburg did not say.

Some things are best shared only with family members, and anthropomorphizing pet stories are probably one of them.

It's Friday, and I still haven't done the housework this week, a shocking lapse on my part, but these things happen. Maybe today, maybe over the weekend. I'll get there eventually. Last night, at the salon, I scrawled two sloppy pre-poems: my notebook is filling up with these undigested starts, and I'm longing to spend a day with them. Maybe that will be today. Or maybe my taskmaster mind will intervene and force me back into the editing chair.

In any case, it's Friday. Trash day. Sigh day.

The rain patters slowly in the darkness. I am thinking about time. So grand, so petty. Tragicomedy and melodrama. The cat taps his watch and longs for me to come home.