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.