my juvenile plan to write a poem a day for the first 100 days of trump’s presidency have been thwarted by influenza. so, yer bright and sad and beautiful eyes only had to suffer through 48 days of hastily-construed wailing and railing as opposed to 100. i’m sad to have been broken in such a way but life is varied, complex, and always unpredictable.
you’ll get three installments of waterwood this week, however, to make up for me missing friday. i hope that makes you smile.
don’t catch no flus out there, party people. flus ain’t kind.