By William Matthews
Baudelaire: "The dead, the poor dead, have their bad hours."
But the dead have no watches, no grief and no hours.
At first not smoking took all my time: I did it
a little by little and hour by hour.
Per diem. Pro bono. Cui bono? Pro rata.
But the poor use English. Off and on. By the hour.
"I'm sorry but we'll have to stop now." There tick but
fifty minutes in the psychoanalytic hour.
Vengeance is mine, yours, his or hers, ours, yours again
(you-all's this time), and then (yikes!) theirs. I prefer ours.
Twenty minutes fleeing phantoms at full tilt and then
the cat coils herself like a quoit and sleeps for hours.
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Thursday was cooler than Wednesday and rainy on and off. We went out in the late morning to get bagels, did a bunch of chores -- mine included laundry and packing up clothes for Goodwill -- then we walked in the drizzle to the beach, which we had pretty much to ourselves because of the weather except for people who were making a wood fire that smelled amazing.
The Os won, and my Thursday night chat group ran long -- we were all avoiding watching the debate -- so I ate dinner late (one of the bagels we got earlier with tofu). Afterward we watched this week's The Boys, a massive horror shitfest, followed by a season three episode of The Bear, which feels a little out of focus midway through. Speaking of horror shitfests, Forever Twilight in Forks:
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