No time to walk the dog this morning. Warmed up my wife’s car. Idling in the driveway when I left. She called, a joke: where was the car? Where had I parked it? This isn’t funny, she said. The car should be in the driveway, I said. I didn’t move it, I said. I repeated statements like these in progressively angrier registers until she laughed. Got me.
Correcting horrible little essays that point out the number of times a poem uses metaphor and the metaphor shows how the speaker feels and the speaker doesn’t like the subject of the poem because the metaphors are negative which show his negative attitude. Trees bare out the window. Sky cloudy again. Call that metaphor.
Half past noon. Thinking: I have to get those leaf piles raked and into bags. Thinking: my children are so much older and busier now and conscripting them into chores is more difficult. And the light goes so quickly these evenings. And I’m not home until late. Thinking: a day of unmolested solitude would be nice.