Last night I sipped a half bottle of 12-year-old Scotch into my veins while rewatching Saving Private Ryan and three episodes of the original Star Trek series on Interflix. I slept very well after that. This morning I wrote a poem while sipping coffee, then scrambled up some eggs in butter, topped them with fresh diced tomatoes, and toasted the bread Teresa loves. I roasted a couple of steaks for Amigo, and sipped yerba mate while sunning my face and hands on the patio deck (I love the late winter sun). Now I am watching an old Western on cable, and occasionally gazing out at the Atlantic-blue sea, the fishing boats, the swallows dancing in swoops. Just as I was about to turn on the news, I thought better of it. I am so tired of news about that sociopathic, anti-mask-wearing, self-serving tyrant. I almost open my social network accounts, but remember how much negativity and rudeness is on there, so instead I leave my office and help Teresa learn how to subscribe to and read newspapers on the LP laptop we bought for her together a while ago. I have been promising to do that for months. I call my Mother and my sisters.
Stephen Page is part Apache and part Shawnee. He was born in Detroit. He is the author of four books of poetry, several stories, essays, and literary criticisms. He holds degrees from Columbia University and Bennington College.