6:33 pm

The E-trolley clangs around my corner. A block and a half later is the front door. Quick pop of the mailbox (Nordstrom's), shoes off, cats fed, windows opened, kettle on.

Blazer off, shirt untucked, in blue comfy chair with feet up, cup of tea, ready for half an hour flipping through fall fashions uninterrupted.

6:59 pm

Ahhhh.

Oi Sidney -- we're at median first-marriage age --



AND making graphs at home. (And taking LSATs...)

nine nine

The Same River

Yes, yes, you can't step into the same
river twice, but all the same, this river
is one of the things that has changed
least in my life, and stepping into it
always feels like returning to something
far back and familiar, its steady current
of coppery water flowing around my calves
and then my thighs, my only waders
a pair of old shorts. Holding a fly rod
above my head, my other arm out
for balance, like some kind of dance,
trying not to slip on the mossy rocks,
I make my way out to the big rock
I want to fish from, mottled with lichen
that has dried to rusty orange, a small
midstream island that a philosopher
might use to represent stasis
versus flux, being amidst becoming,
in some argument that is larger
than any that interests me now
as I climb out dripping onto the boulder
and cast my line out to where the bubbles
form a channel and trail off in a V
that points to where the fish will be.

-- Jeffrey Harrison