Tuesday, November 15, 2016


There is nothing special for today.
My daughter, school-bound, is going to play
With the friends she's made; my wife away
To work will go as she will daily do.
I will remain at home, where I'll wade through
Pages writ by students, scholars, too,
Marking what needs marked and reading on
Until the pages are all past me, gone
To where such things ultimately belong.
Afterward, I know not what will be;
Quiet time alone's a rarity,
Something seldom coming down to me,
Although I know that others fare far worse;
I know that I am only lightly cursed.

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