I had a terrible dream about my former job last night, that I showed up late to a meeting at the office and my former assistant, who now has my job, was wearing a gorgeous green velvet dress and was so happy. It turned out to be a big party and Oprah was the guest of honor and I looked at her and just wanted to bust out crying. Why I thought Oprah would understand my problems — that’s a power normally reserved for Jesus and the ideal reader. It’s my fault for having an old copy of “O” magazine on my nightstand. I swear I just bought it for research.
No poems today.