2001-05-11 - 6:59 p.m.

The anti-itch cream isn't providing nearly enough anti for relief, so the plan for the rest of the evening is to down bourbon and pulp fiction until the combination knocks me out. That, or bourbon and the Miss Universe pageant. Or maybe I can divert myself sufficiently drinking the bourbon and watching the puppy chase her own tail (a pursuit she finds so engrossing and pursues so enthusiastically that she just chased herself into the base of the wooden swivel chair).

The rush-hour traffic alerts were more interesting than usual this afternoon. The first batch of reports simply noted that there was "a tense situation" in Antioch that had required the closing of several roads, and that there were several accidents on secondary roads in that area that could perhaps be attributed to confused motorists trying to make their way home on unfamiliar roads. Half an hour later, the report clarified that the "situation" was a police standoff - with an armed police officer. At Bronwen's farewell party, my boss said that she'd heard the situation discussed at the neighborhood wine store, and that the officer was distraught over a love affair gone wrong, a detail confirmed by the AP man. During the drive back, I caught the tail-end of a newsradio update, in which the analyst held forth on how other area police officers were reacting to the drama. Oy.

Shifting to complete frivolity, the food at the party was splendid, including ham sandwiches, chicken mousse, salad (spinach, tomato, red onion, mozzarella and pesto), and strawberry soup. I contributed the baklava I'd picked up at the farmer's market during lunch, and had several glasses of the Bordeaux my boss had brought. Bronwen was both glowing and misty-eyed; I couldn't help uttering a wail or two in her direction, even though she'll still be residing close enough for us to talk of watching the meteor showers together in her back yard later this summer.

Poetica Collab, May 2001: Write a poem as an expression of an addiction you have, good or bad...

List Junkie

I should wear all of my lists
as a long, swishy skirt
for when I have done
with all of the lists -
the misprinted checks
and the extra-large Post-Its,
the cute country notecards
and the scraps of old invoices,
the shreds of guttered diaries
and slivers of envelopes
with ballpoint filigree -
when I have done
every thing on every list
and every last patch
is whirled away,
why, then
it should not matter
that there is no skirt
for having accomplished
the stretches and squats,
the scrubbing and styling,
and all of the studying
and all of the stitching -
why, then
I will be so fine.
You'll envy the trim
and hone of my body.
You'll crave the rich fruits
that grow in my garden.
You'll dream of the honey
ripening in my hive
--and then you'll hand to me
the start of another skirt.