i had a poem here called easter but after i wrote the following my mind cloud-like did a shift. i don't want to belabor it. i just want this to be a mild and un-intense spring sunday with no plans beyond a mellow hour of talk therapy and no future to speak of. i think that poem i erased recalled how i used to feel and might betimes still.

it's calm and still, sunshine hazy, jasper lays in the rocker, hasn't barfed though he coughed up some night juice by my slippers. the sound of machines is distant, the roofers absent, therapy looms, in a way i'm in an existential funk not to make it sound grand but like the sky it joins up with everywhere every existential holiday like a train whistle transports you from station to station unnamed. i hear the train a' coming. and birds, don't forget the birds in the background singing so endearingly you wanna cry on the fire escape that clings faithfully to the building because it was built that way in case of emergency.