December 7

As I sit at my desk wishing I did not have to edit a book on poetry and painting a subject that fascinates me usually, but today is not as usual, being today, white sky, decent amount of sunlight, forty one degrees in Central Park, and it makes sense to dream of Chicago, another big city with two major league ballclubs, and the pleasure of seeing Paul and you, too, Elaine, whom I never get to see often enough in our own city of the subway series the champagne gallery and the tech wreck on wall street, and as I look out the window almost any minute I expect the brokers to fall from the sky like Icarus in Brughel's painting in Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts" (and so back to work)