The day dies, and I must review what has happened,
Not for significance, none can be found, but for archival
Purposes. How can this day be described and assigned
To one type of the few, of the good or the awful,
The hopeful, the doleful? A careful analysis has to be
Done. There was too much wind, but the weather was
Warm. The ride on the fiercer of my motorcycles,
The beast which was meant to be ridden on tracks,
Was surprisingly pleasant, but I lost a glove.
The self-conscious, tedious, lit-crit analysis
Of the regrettable Margery Kempe was cut short.
Our professor was summoned back home.
My fried rice came out nice. My cocktails have
Calmed me. A sky like one seen in a Hudson School
Painting drifts outside my window. The day wasn't
Bad. Like most of 26,000 others I've witnessed,
It hasn't been splendid, nor was it a pain. It was
Time passing pointlessly, taking me with it. Impassively,
I let it die.