October twenty-ninth, two thousand fourteen.
Wednesday.
Jacket weather. Woke up at six o'clock
and watched the garbage truck pass.
Caramel latte at 8:30,
but I slept head-cocked until then on a love seat.
Showered slowly. Made sure not to put too much
weight on my leading foot. I ran a mile and the risk
of blisters last night. Probably Tuesday, late October.
I prefer callouses textured like sand dunes.
The ones Frank O'Hara slept on. I tried
to strangle her neck but only hit sour frets.
Lycoming's new tables beneath three hundred dollar
parasols looked like ashtrays and gas station fountain
drink spill trays, but I still sat beneath them.