This is One of Those Days
when you want to hide away in a little upstairs room
with a mug of hot chocolate,
when you want to think out things
like highways to Wichita, and Planck’s Law,
and the mysteries of evergreens.
It’s not a day for rolling out your life on a red carpet,
but for the smell and tiny flame of a votive candle,
for you to look at your ring finger seriously
as you haven’t done for years. If you relax enough
you might let into your mind a few old favorite songs,
Hey There, or Blueberry Hill or Mountain Greenery.
And this is one of those days when politics
are far flings on distant hills. Stretch.
Twist your shoulders, do at least one knee bend,
make a face in the mirror. . . . In a mountain greenery
where God paints the scenery. . . . This is not that other day
when the phone started ringing at seven a.m.,
emails came at you like swarms of bees, and two as buzzards,
everyone but you had a new joke. Nor is it the day before that,
when no matter what you were doing
you could always hear yourself screaming inside as if something
had slithered loose and begun dragging itself toward you.
This is not one of those days. This is a time
when you want to take an idea and calm it down,
caress it, smooth it out on a plywood clipboard,
engage a new quantum problem. Today,
you want to stroll back and forth, hands behind your back,
humming, “You with the stars in your eyes”
and “the wind stood still.” You want hot chocolate
to have a slight froth—and its container
should be thick with a wide thick handle.
From the questions you’ve let into your mind,
on this day you should find at least one answer
and then take a nap on the single bed
beside the chair with the soft plaid comforter,
pulling the blankets up around your neck
as you settle your head into the goosedown pillow
and sleep, utterly relaxed. This is a day like this.
This is just one of those days.
Connecticut River Review