After a rainy weekend, it’s always swell to see such sunshine Monday morning. One boat moored in the Newburyport harbor. A sport fishing boat. The first. The wharves are filling up though both on this and the Salisbury side.
The tide is moving out fast. If I look at the water I can feel that optical illusion of traveling upriver. May already. April out to sea.
Monday already. Time for work.
Son came by at lunch, grabbed his guitar, and sang this tune. He swears it’s a traditional tune. I doubt it.
Lunchtime Poem
Every Monday morning the occupation
gets down to business. Management retreats
to their deluxe monastic offices
dancing with meaningful abandonment;
the front line moves beyond its circle of friends;
and something in the coffee calculates
the distance traveled on an interstate
dividing circumstances by position.
Not relishing the thought, I eat an orange.
~Son Rivers 2005
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