It's hard, these days, to find a thing to say. I mean to find a thing to say that someone might say something back to. It's hard to have someone say something back. It is all too much.
Last night there were six drummers waiting to play. They each had their own style. One a little more uptight, another had jazzy flick of the wrist. One played earnestly. One without a care in the world. I was happy listening to each of them.
Today at the kitchen table we talked about words and poets and people. The sun was shining through the dirty window behind him. That window is my window, I thought. I am a housewife with dirty windows. I should clean that window, I thought. I know I won't.
I don't know what makes better words or better drummers or better poets or better people. I know what makes a window dirty. It is dirt on the window.