Classic Poem

weekends here
are the best: beautiful, quiet
I sit in Caron’s & my chair
the one we share, at the desk
between our desks, the shutters
letting in light
all is white, the shadows
diffuse — multisourced —
light coming from many directions
I’m beginning to die myself I see
because mostly I sense I cannot see
too well — & have almost a headache. Julie
types way across the space on the computer
the rustle of language that quiet rattle,
Michael came in, adjusted some
of the new equipment, & left — dressed for
tennis. Julie is dressed
differently too —
tight pants. Only I am dressed
the same —
but I am dying. And it is
Good Friday. Big deal, it will
take a while
I make tea, get paper,
start this