It is hard to think of a poem on a Sunday.
Working the words when I’ve woven my day out of trying to unwind….
Oy vey, this promise to my blog makes me weary.
How can I write of the bus app? Racing across a street to catch a ride.
The words spun between friends.
The dancers making magic: a dress as tall as my house, the opera singer above it.
The masked women who look like evil handmaidens, dresses billowing into art.
The intricate carnival of love between (paid) dancers that played with the stage lights.
A cat falling from stage right.
Or is it stage left?
All the world is a stage: the bus stop, the pink cold sky, the grocery clerk, the grilled cheese sandwich, my tired body attached to a mind that yells quiet! to my deadlines.
Ah blog: this is what you get today. Only because I promised.
See you tomorrow!