By Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I've shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
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"Last summer, Maggie Smith — no, not that one — sat in a Starbucks in Bexley, Ohio, and wrote a poem," wrote Nora Krug in The Washington Post, adding that Smith couldn't know she was creating a work that would catch the mood of 2016, when "among the works most shared, according to the Academy of American Poets, were Maya Angelou's 'Still I Rise,' W.H. Auden’s 'September 1, 1939' — and 'Good Bones.'"
I spent most of Tuesday with Maddy, which was very nice -- she had an appointment in the morning to which she needed a ride, then we came home for lunch, then we went to A.C. Moore and Michael's for craft items she wanted to make gifts for people (and I may or may not have bought a $5 pair of fuzzy slippers). We tried to get Moose Munch at Bath & Body Works but they were sadly sold out.
When we came home I did some stuff on Shutterfly and colored my hair while Paul made peanut soup, yay! After dinner we watched the first episode of The Young Pope, which is absolutely insane, I think in a good way but it's too soon to be sure! Then we watched Agents of SHIELD, which can drop the Ex Machina rip-off any time now. From the Jurassic World exhibit at the Franklin Institute:
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