Out a bit late at the movies last night, so into bed late, and now I am groggy and there is a lick of snow on the ground and the cat is horrified. "It is March," I tell the cat. "What else do you expect?" But he glowers and stomps up the stairs.

I finished one small editing project yesterday and started the other. I worked on marketing classes, and I corresponded with potential participants, and I emailed with my publisher about the production schedule for my next collection. He's aiming for early October, which will actually be a lovely time to bring out a book as I'll turn 60 on October 7. What better way to feel good about my age than to have a new book? Several people also reached out about scheduling readings, so that's good too. All in all it was a weirdly businesslike day, but I guess they have to happen once in a while.

Yesterday's primary editing project was a poetry collection. Today's is an academic article, so my brain will need to settle into new pathways. I also need to clean the upstairs rooms. I also need to prep for next week's Monson class. I also need to get a haircut. I'll probably go out to write tonight, which means I'll need to come up with a prompt and make something for our potluck--maybe Italian-style sweet and sour peppers. It will be a scatty sort of day.

I missed last week's writing session, for reasons of extreme tiredness. Still, despite the chore-like nature of my above description, I am looking forward to getting back into that routine. I haven't wrestled with a poem of my own for a couple of weeks, and that's a long gap for me. There's so much poetry in my work life these days . . . but my own poems wander in limbo.

***

Idyl

 

Dawn Potter

What we have is a leaky shower,

and Tom is lying in it, caulking the drain.

It takes guts to be handy—

guts, and a tolerance for misery.

 

Meanwhile, I sweep crumbs and boil spaghetti

and wash spinach and picture my high school

report card droning its dot-matrix platitude:

“ :: has :: flare :: for :: the :: subject :: ”

 

He does.

But if I had a bathtub instead of a leaky shower,

there’d be no need for flare. The wet book in my hands

would be Villette or maybe Faust,

 

and all of the water would go straight down the drain,

just like in the movies.

O, for a lightbulb, for hot and cold water and oil in the tank.

We live in a time of miracles,

 

when the food doesn’t rot, unless we ask it to.

Dear handyman, so carefully not letting the cat lick caulk,

I empty this sloshing pail in your honor.

[from Calendar (Deerbrook Editions, forthcoming)]