And now the rain begins its sweet, sultry
bossa nova. On the distant street you
can hear the elegant whoosh as a car
drives on to some appointment, far away.
Evening, tentative, makes its first, subtle
forays into the gears of your mental
grandfather clock, pendulum slicing the
hours left until the silver grey sky
is blotched out as though from a broken
jar of india ink that an artist
keeps on the dusty windowsill that over-
looks their work table. Years later, they have
moved so far away from ink that their pen,
naked from its cap, dried out and solid,
oxide coating the nib and spreading like
pustules of a fungal bloom, languishes,
quite forgotten, at the bottom of a
rusty toolbox; however, the ink was
sealed tightly. It was waiting, every breath
that’s gone by, for the fuzzy paw of this
unsteady kitten, on, on the table
vellum, intricately wrought, is laid out.
Where was I? Oh yes, the rain piques a new
excitement. The day is arcing westward.
Yesterday, the sky was lit a golden
zoetic hue, now calm’s silky silver.
—Matthew Glover 2012
(also known as how I spent my afternoon)
