I’m not sure I have a hobby; graduate school tends to strip such things away, if not in the beginning then during the dissertation It’s hard to pick such things up again, but I’ve tried. I started going to flea markets again, plant things that sometimes live, and go bicycling when the weather is right. Reading doesn’t count since it is so hard too separate work and pleasure reading. Computer games seem too singular. It’s almost halfway through the month, and I must say, I’m glad I’m approaching the Writer’s Digest Poetry Challenge as a fresh series of drafts; there is no possible way to produced finished poems daily. Gentle readers, please grant me drafting grace today and throughout the month. Thank you.

Daily Report

The subject came outside today

and fertilized his lawn. He then inspected it

for incipient dandelions and leftover clover

from last year, spending about forty-five

minutes manually removing each. He wore gloves.

I wonder if he sees them as lawn errors, something to be

red penciled, But it’s not my place to wonder. Next,

he went into the garage and came out with

a bucket and newspapers, stood on the paving stones

and wiped down the slight film left by winter.

This continued for approximately an hour

and thirty-five minutes. He has a lot of windows.

After putting the bucket back in the garage,

he remained hidden from sight for exactly

three hours. I spent that time struggling

with the afghan my mother left me to finish

and feeling distaste at the jarring note

the chocolate brown makes next to the florescent

pink and orange. It’s a job though, and I aim to finish it;

the rocker by the window supports my back well.

The clock in the hall measures the beats between

cast on and cast off. When he reemerges

I note the cautious rate of speed at which

he pulls his beige Buick Sable out of the driveway

headed south by southwest, no known destination.