September Song

Summer slipped by in a haze of heat and grass clippings and glass after glass of rose. I haven't had anything to say, because I have been reluctant to say anything. Poverty gave way to anxiety, and then acute lonelieness gave way to detachment. So my demons came a saucer-eyed to sit and leer up at me from their perch on my chest, so I worked long hours in an effort to make myself indispensable and the longer I worked, inexplicably, the less money I had and I became a shut-in and didn't get nearly tan enough.

Now the first of the leaves sway to gold toward russet and there are tendrils of cashmere melancholy above the promise of loam in the night air.

I've made a number of promises to myself this month, I remain wary, but with an indefatigueable idiot savant's optimism that if it doesn't take today it just might take tomorrow. I have missed writing.

So among the many promises, maybe I should make another, to write something for every night in September. It might take, it might not.