It's the right kind of day to read poems set in England.
We're too lazy for sleep, but the light is just right;
a kind of grey only acheived from exhaust-stained snow
or the collection of Pall Mall cigarette butts in the bottom of near empty
cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Even the birds know in their bones that the day is awash with oilmen and bankers
flocking to high-rises as if commanded by a book on Death,
and so they too plant roots and cancel all flights.
On a day like today it is enough to lay here thinking about Virginia Woolf's breasts,
the first sip of summer lemonade, and the slow-cooked BBQ soaked ribs of beasts much more noble than you or I.
There will be no reason for Byron, Keats, or Shelley. Not today.
Probably not tomorrow.