As the end of another trip around the sun nears, I’ve been looking through some mish-moshed paperwork, receipts, and all sorts of crap that has been accumulating on miscellaneous bookshelves, on top of temporarily empty boxes labeled “XMAS DECORATIONS”, and basically any flat surface in “the Patio Room” which is where I work from home.
The
space is likely intended to be a third bedroom, but because we already have a
twin bed in the “guest bedroom”, and there’s a full-size patio door in the
room, this Patio Room has become my default office-I hate calling it
that because I want to use the space for more than just where I work from,
forty hours a week. I plan on setting up my piano keyboard in that room, once I
have sorted through and organized the mish-mosh that takes up 90 percent of its
space.
So, before I get into the visceral guts of what I want this post to be about, I will share another mini surprise I found when opening a 4” x 6” 60 sheet journal that was buried under unopened 401{k} quarterly statements and invoices from Apollo’s new vet.
There is no title, just the date of 02/23/23.
There
you were,
looking
at the skyline on a
humid
August evening,
methodically
swirling the Pinot Grigio
in
your wine glass.
Not
knowing better,
one
would assume you were
mesmerized
by the passing skyscrapers along the Milwaukee shoreline.
But
I knew you were looking through the passing urban landscape.
Your
mind turning about,
you
and her
me
and him
you
and me.
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