September 22: In Which I Am Self-Deprecating and Meta

When so much happens in a single day

That fourteen lines cannot contain it all,

I must cut ruthlessly joy and dismay

That seems on recollection more banal

Than simple pleasures, grumpy anecdotes,

From which my pithy aphorisms spring;

Fun to extemporaneously quote,

Thus needful, therefore to those words I cling.

But my desire to tell things as they are,

Then wars with my desire to elevate

The daily grind, and so I raise the bar,

And then repine ambition far too late,

And such pretension truly is a yawn,-i...