Paper or plastic?

Friday's my last day here in the sanctuary of the Writing Center . . . I'm delighted that Steve's well enough to come back to work, and I've enjoyed holding down the fort. So it's back to finding a Real Job. Just shoot me now.
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Got a forwarded e-mail today about a local exhibit of David Bottini's paintings: the sender (Karla Kelsey, the new poet at Susquehanna University) has her students write poems in response to David's paintings; the students will read their poems this Friday night at the exhibit, which is in a coffeehouse near the campus. Great idea for an assignment. I think I'll go.
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Started a new poem yesterday. It began with Yeats' line because a fire was in my head, and riffed from there, in unrepentant iambics, into an exploration of arrogance and shame. It's not done yet. I'm afraid to look back at what I wrote last night. I think it probably sucks. When I'm writing stuff that's not quite found its footing, I often resort to meter. A way of staying on the ledge?
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Thank you, C, for ordering my chapbook! I mailed it from the office this morning.
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I meant to clean off my desk by now. The desk I had last semester, in a cubicle upstairs. They've let me keep my piles of papers & library books, but yeah, it's time to deal with all those loose ends.

Maybe this weekend.
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