Tonight, Josephine

Sitting on the burgundy couch in the early autumn air, a month and change since last I posted, watching the New York Football Giants score a touchdown to pull within two touchdowns of San Diego, twenty past ten on a random Sunday night.

Since then we've witnessed the governments (federal and otherwise) flounder in the face of a disaster that they'd seen coming (billions to rebuild, untold hundreds dead), the continuance of a far away war that seems endless from this vantage point, late September two thousand and five, the sudden start of an unwarranted war at home

So strange, victory.
Twelve hundred spires,
the only sound, Moscow burning

Mon amie, I grew tired of being angry, so tired of being angry, and so instead grew silent, sitting on the burgundy couch, empty as the Tuileries, without so much as a peep from the Sublime Idealist, much to my detriment, much to my dismay.

In the last extremity
to advance or not to advance
I hear you laughing

Until now, ten past ten on September twenty-fifth, when it occurs to me that there will be time enough for stunned and stony silence, and not enough to shout.