Labor Day

By 3 a.m. I’m awake.

There’s work to be done.

So I get out of bed and walk toward the kitchen as if I know the way by memory, like a farmer might know the way to his fields.

Upon arriving safely in the kitchen, I decide to give into everything I desire—crackers and cheese, a small whiskey, a handful of red grapes—because I’ve worked so hard to get here and deserve whatever I gey..

Then I walk downstairs to the studio, carefully, so as not to spill either the whiskey or the cheese.

I sit in the swivel chair, reading by black light the ancient poets of the 1980s. I like the way the poets of those days made things look on the page: as if every word was going around looking for its heart.

It’s as if I’m in the company of old friends who are as happy to see me as I am to see them, and that we’ve all gone about our business knowing that one thing doesn’t necessarily lead to another in a logical procession.

An hour passes pleasantly, reading the ancient poets while sipping whiskey.

However, this thought occurs: maybe I haven’t been working as hard as I might have.

I make a note of it: at this time of year it begins getting dark earlier and earlier, morsel by morsel.