i sat down to write you a poem.
needless to say, i did, because here it is, but i am not sure how i feel of its quality.
the problem, dear, is i had the television on,
and i also suffered from the hunger, slightly,
and have we discussed how my hands get cold easily this time of year?
poor circulation is my guess.
so, i wanted to write you a beautiful poem
and what happened is this little mish-mash of proesetry
written while i wear lined pajama pants on a Sunday night, in my living room,
one lamp on, the other off, because i plugged it into the wrong outlet a week ago and am too lazy to fix it.