HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE

It is late. Or early. The neighbor's hand is injured.

He seeks succor at Maimonides. I wish him well...

I was supposed to be writing a sonnet, some garbage, a bagatelle. 

Besides, I am quite the fraud right now, and am just waiting to be exposed by a good  person. 

And what, dear neighbor, is your latest favorite outrage 

Of all those born every day in orbit around my dishwater-smelling life?

Well met then and thank ye kindly.

Do give my regards to your wife. 

(And so I return to writing my poetry, 

And briefly imagine that my mind one day

Will in fact be rows and columns of ordered verses,

Neat as a bed of pansies bordered by lines of round river rocks,

Here and there a stray forget-me-not...)