Got a job waiting tables put the two weeks in at the car wash tomorrow's my day off It's November, but the sun still thinks it's September filtering through the dead leaves on bare limbs the color of nostalgia at a cool seventy degrees a last hurrah for sundresses and short shorts fine by me I'm writing a poem by my open window letting the dusty, smoky room breathe for once sure, things could be better but they sure as hell could be worse