No surprise: attendance at yesterday's reading was tiny. Poets love demonstrating, and I'm glad so many of them were out on the streets where they needed to be. But it was a pleasant reading despite the minuscule crowd, and a bit of a distraction from family stuff: my elderly father has come down with Covid, so my sister and I have been in a constant state of text-triage.

Other than that continuing saga, I've got nothing on the docket for today. I hope to mow grass, and I need to do the grocery shopping, and I'd like to finally get my bike out of the shed and prep it for riding season.

And I'm longing to turn on the poem faucet again. I've been so roiled up with travel and obligation that I've barely touched my own real work. I keep going into the world and reading poems, and then feeling the tug of emptiness because I am not writing any poems at the moment. The loneliness of not making: it is as real a sorrow as any other.