Bright sun this morning
but no incentive to do anything.
Still jobless and looks as if I may remain
that way for some time. Still, after nearly
4 months, in a state of disbelief
that I was fired. No recourse. None.

Finally made myself take a shower.
Hair is dry now, so I am going to the grocery.

And I am going to cook tonight.

I am going to make an antipasto salad,
spinach and sweet Italian sausage lasagne,
and garlic bread with grated fresh parmesan
and slices of fresh garlic.

And I am going to open my bottle of Tosca
from Chateau Thomas Winery,
though I told myself I was going to wait until
the weather got warm and the neighbors
and I could get together and share some wine
and candlelight and poetry and food on their patio.
But, hell, why not just have it now?

How can I pass up this wine this night with a description
like this:

This is an equal blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet Sauvignon.
The wine is dark in color with a fragrant nose of dried
fruits, such as fig, cherry, and blackberry.
Bouquets of oak, clove, chocolate, and vanilla
are accented with hints of tobacco with anise rounding
out the generous mouth-filling experience...

Yes. I shall open it. It's a perfect choice for tonight.


I can get us another
bottle of good wine then. They're busy people anyway
and the last time we had ourselves such a night
it was completely serendipitous, and lovely, I might add.

Who knows if such a scene and such a night will ever
be repeated? The sounds of the county fair, only blocks away,
floating on the breeze, my oldest son, his wife, my youngest
son, his two friends, coming and going and participating
in the conversation. The soft bubbling sound of the fishpond.
The glow of candlelight on everyone's faces making the whole
world seem softer and more welcoming. The fire lit in the
firepit, the taste of a perfectly balanced cabarnet on my lips,
the sky filled with stars and constellations whose names few
of us knew but whose light we gazed upon as we took stabs
at calling out our best guesses.

I had Billy Collins sign the page of the poem I read
them that night. I had left the book sitting near
the candle and red wax dripped down the page.
I shared the story with Billy. He said: Glad to hear
the book's getting some use.

Ha! Then he smiled, and I smiled, and he signed my
book on that page.

I feel a little better now. A little more hopeful now.

*******************************************


Part One: LifeXXXII


HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.