A little bit of Annie

Since I am sick today (thank you, Africa), and since I'm wearing a black turtleneck, I think I will set aside tales of Moroccan exploits for another time and instead share with you a little poem in honor mon cher ami in Towson who lays away money for a Hermes 3000 manual typewriter.  This one is somewhat atypical of this particular poet but I love it nonetheless because it reminds me of my home and all the dear friends whom I think of so fondly.  

I Remember by Anne Sexton

By the first of August

the invisible beetles began

to snore and the grass was

as tough as hemp and was

no color--no more than 

the sand was a color and

we had worn our bare feet 

bare since the twentieth

of June and there were times

we forgot to wind up your

alarm clock and some nights

we took our gin warm and neat

from old jelly glasses while

the sun blew out of sight

like a red picture hat and

one day I tied my hair back 

with a ribbon and you said

that I looked almost like

a puritan lady and what

I remember best is that

the door to your room was 

the door to mine.