Poem of the day

Another Reason I Don't Keep a Gun in the House by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

A couple of things from Boston

This weekend I decided to pause my DAT studies to celebrate my birthday in Boston with some of my best friends. Boston is such a lovely city, I'd like to live here one day, I'd like to live with these friends one day.

This was a cute bubble tea place. Taro is my favorite flavor, its purple! 

The sun was out so we sat by the water side. Roberta tells me she runs here (at the park) every day! Then we got pedicures. I chose bright orange by accident thinking that it was a little more pink than it came out to be. But, I like it! 

We walked around for a bit and I saw a motorcyclecartransformer. No joke, how else would you describe it?

Where does one get one of these things? 

Dinner with Carolyn, Sarah and Roberta at Sel de la Terre. Best Salmon I have ever had! 

My mind was crisp, candied with emotions but I had not any words to express them at the time. A shy 'thanks guys' escaped my lips. And still now, all I can think of is this wonderful poem, I Ask You by Billy Collins:

What scene would I want to be enveloped in

more than this one,

an ordinary night at the kitchen table,

floral wallpaper pressing in,

white cabinets full of glass,

the telephone silent,

a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think

about all that is going on outside--

leaves gathering in corners,

lichen greening the high grey rocks,

while over the dunes the world sails on,

huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.

But beyond this table

there is nothing that I need,

not even a job that would allow me to row to work,

or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4

with cracked green leather seats.

No, it's all here,

the clear ovals of a glass of water,

a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,

not to mention the odd snarling fish

in a frame on the wall,

and the way these three candles--

each a different height--

are singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me

if I lower my head now and listen

to the short bass candle as he takes a solo

while my heart

thrums under my shirt--

frog at the edge of a pond--

and my thoughts fly off to a province

made of one enormous sky

and about a million empty branches. 

Thanks guys, for everything.