Do you know how many socks I walk by?
There’s one in the hallway
half-full of someone’s ghost foot
curled in an awkward twist against
the air return grate.
Another, thinned from being
gripped and stretched between
the dog’s teeth, lays like a jazz
singer over a piano, except the
piano in this case is a dog bone
purple and orange, seconded
constantly by the cotton stocking
A third, bright green, attempts to
blend with all its sock might into
the families of dog hair and dust
gathered over the New Year non-
celebrations, and hides under
the belly of the black amp.
I see them bravely waiting on the open
floors or scrambled then stuck beneath
a table, couch or tired black amp.
Leave them. Right where they are.
I open the curtains in the living room.
See the hail-puckered ice on the
grass, sidewalk. Touch with the
gentle gaze of my sleep-heavy eyes
the low white cloud large enough
to fill the entire sky. Sigh.
There’s a hint of deep grey like
a drop shadow somewhere
far behind the white. Between
the blue and night. Beside the sun.
Maybe it’s a sock.
A gray sock, thick knitted wool
a cherub dropped on heaven’s
floor on the way to the laundry
chute. Maybe it’s been blissfully
shredded by dogs. All dogs
go to heaven.
Surely, Mary Mother of Us,
leaves it on the floor.
Opens the curtains.
I am the first up in the house this morning. I like the house first thing in the morning. I can hear the sound of the heated air blowing out of the vent at my feet in my little office. I can hear the second hand shimmy around the clock. My body is tired but my brain is awake. Last night I dreamed dreams of crime and porn getting stuck on the television while the kids were in the room. Please don’t ask me why. *she shakes her head.*
Today I will write, reorganize the bathroom, fold laundry, do yoga…have a writing dreams 2021 session. Yesterday I spent hours deep in oracle cards and ink in my journal. Bliss.
I finished reading Hamnet and Judith by Maggie O’Farrell. It was incredible. A deep dive into a fictionalized world of Shakespeare, his wife, Agnes (she is also Anne), their love and family life. It’s an inspired story I was sad ended. And what a last line. Phew.
I started Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. It’s scooted me ahead in time to New York City in the late 1930s. It’s a ‘capital’ read so far.
I’m watching The West Wing with my husband. It’s stellar. I cry nearly every episode; tears of both joy and heartbreak. If only Aaron Sorkin ran the White House. Do watch his Masterclass on screenwriting.
The title is a welcome mat…be simple and create access to the first few lines…Billy Collins, Masterclass
What are you reading? Watching? Writing?