I was dreaming about aliens and asymmetry when
The garbage truck woke me.
I thought about stripes, rib, ribbon and lace being tipped into the refuse swamp.
I thought about the work week,
And arrived at work without regard, savoir-faire, or pivot.
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I'm slowly recovering culinary interest again.
I sense this has stemmed from a (very) long weekend of sobriety,
Of engagement and reclusion.
I'll soon be baking again.
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Six weeks to go.
In six weeks I will fly away
To where notions of home impregnate dreams;
Where familiarity has grown distant.
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People with elevated buoyancy wear me out.
I don't so much feel like I can't keep up;
It's more that I feel they are pilfering my verve.
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