A day of laziness,

of coffee in the afternoon,

of hiding from the elements,

dull-witted, in my apartment.

Tonight, poets will read

at the Armory in Somerville.

I'd like to see and hear them.

Some of them are friends.

But I can't seem to unglue myself

from this damp sluggishness,

this cloud-thick lassitude.

Maybe toward evening.

Rain pocks and blotches

the snow of three days ago.

You'd think that the rain

was a poet himself,

marking up a white page

with disorderly doodles.