May 9, 2005

Since I will be awake and long gone

For those of you who read this in the mornings, with your coffee or hot tea or your first hot orange snort of Tang, I apologise.

I apologise because I won't be here tomorrow morning at the appointed time. I feel like the guy who has to call his girlfriend and tell her "Sorry honey, I won't make it." See, I take our little meetings seriously, I really do. Probably WAY too seriously.

No, I DO take them too seriously.

"Hello, my name is Irrelephant, and I'm a blogwhore."

At the time tomorror morning that I'm usually writing the morning blog entry I will instead be on the road returning home. I have to have the wee'rrelephant on a tour bus at 5:45 in the ayem tomorrow morning, so she and her classmates can go to New Orleans to see the Aquarium of the Americas (worth the trip unless you've been to the Pacific Northwest coast) and view an IMAX movie. So, I will have been up WAYYYY too early tomorrow morning and on the road, will have already stood in a cold, wet, dark parking lot and be headed home again at the appointed time, only to get home long enough to change into work clothes and get back to work.

So, lacking a good post (like using past tense future perfect isn't enough for you insatiable pack of barstards) I leave you with this very funny bit of poetry from a former Poet Laureate.



The Country

I wondered about you

when you told me never to leave

a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches

lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.

But your face was absolutely straight

when you twisted the lid down on the round tin

where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?

Who could whisk away the thought

of the one unlikely mouse

padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper

gripping a single wooden match

between the needles of his teeth?

Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,

the sudden flare, and the creature

for one bright, shining moment

suddenly thrust ahead of his time—

now a fire-starter, now a torch-bearer

in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid

illuminating some ancient night.

Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,

the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces

of his fellow mice, one-time inhabitants

of what once was your house in the country?

—Billy Collins

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