“I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

This piece is all loose ends.  Like Prufrock, with his afternoons and coffeespoons and skirts that trail along the floor and women who come and go, talking of Michaelangelo.

(“That is not what I meant at all.  That is not it, at all.”)

It’s been a month of loose ends, some of them still unraveling.  The days are gaining, but there seems to be less and less of what is more and more needed.

Patience.

Breath.

I got bleach on my new(est) yoga pants, and white acrylic paint on my favorite going-out-into-the-world jeans. And felt bad, and then felt bad about feeling bad. Would that these were the worst of the world’s problems.

“I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.”

Phone wire is the perfect foil for January.  As is T.S. Eliot, apparently.