Tuesday, January 8, 2025
dear diary,
I spoke to my son last night over our snazzy iPhones,
mine in Fall River, Massachusetts, his in Los Angeles, California.
I was sitting at the table reflecting on the normality of the day
quietly receding into night.
these days, uneventful goings on are typical of my station in life.
this morning’s eggs looked like yesterday’s eggs,
neatly fried, sunny-side up, with slight charring
around the edges of imperfectly shaped disks, coffee,
Canadian white bread toast with butter, all nestled within
a healthy interior attitude.
the bad news comes with the reporting of certain events:
the investigation of a Piper Cup crash into a hillside
on the outskirts of Providence is on-going, the man
accused of randomly burning a woman to death
on an otherwise empty subway car in Brooklyn pleaded
“not guilty” in a court of law, two bodies found in the landing
gear compartment at a Fort Lauderdale airport, and the lingering
vulgarity of Donald Trump’s election increasing day-by-day
like a stalker on a lonely street of a rainy night downtown.
tonight, harrowing reports of another fire in Los Angeles
piqued my interest, and although it’s usually my son
who calls me to say: “hello” or “how’re you doing”
tonight it was me initiating the call.
