I sit by the open window, spring
the curtains flap, reading a
short story by
Hemingway; feel guilty shouldn’t
read in the middle of day, ought
something practical, like
painting a wall.
I’ll read two pages more, new
I go outside look at the wall
maybe it isn’t
necessary to paint it this year
after all the lock
in the gate only needs a little
oil and the hole
in the fence is for the dog.
The story will follow me outside
and I’ll ask
again why doesn’t the boxer Olsen
like I shouldn’t know, trying to
glean more out
of the short story than there is.
was a poet who wrote novels.