I am. So there.
What? as firs whisper hoarsely to th'exhale,
Winds howling down the chimney, sirens thence
Lo, chasing which or whom on Sunday? Dense
Cloud racks are peach, grey-blue in tow, the pale
Eye of these empty hours with what detail
I feel now in my bones? Don't ask me whence.
"*** off yer soapbox." Silence culling sense
Unto the 'fore as I'd talk, where is bail?
She'd post th'espresso break with this note fer
That: "necessary." I said yes, I knew.
Post Raisin Bran for breakfast...I had two.
Ne fancy artwork on milk's foam in tour,
I'd savour that, and feel the boxes'd stir
My lecture 'til he...walked away. What's new?
Well, I mean, I've this subscription to First Things, and receive two essays late Sunday morning. Needless to say, I've put off reading them for the moment, anyway.