I’m sorry to disappoint, but it’s business as usual this fine August morning. In fact, nothing of note has really happened this last decade of sun-ups,
no Great Pit of Carkoon has swallowed me while I write in my briefs from my modest studio David the Gnome would find quite spacious,
a winning lottery ticket I could easily pay student loans with has yet to fall from the fingers of an angel and land on a page of poetry I’m reading,
and I haven’t sensed a beacon along my delta waves of sleep signaling there’s a settlement of trauma survivors somewhere that needs me to teach it about poetry,
afraid that its own empathy will dissolve like an Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water, and lead to even more incidents of mass violence if its inhabitants are not mandated to read at least a little of it aloud every day by something resembling candlelight.