Subterranean Semester Blues
It's getting down to it now. Another four months of my life spent. I slip into the melancholy of the end of the semester/beginning of winter comedown. It always snows on Thanksgiving. That kills any chance for a bocce ball tournament.
Bocce would really improve my life right now. I'd feel like I accomplished something. Something about the steady clink of two colliding clay spheres puts my life into perspective. As one bocce ball collides with another, so goes the swirling of the ever expanding-contracting universe.
And I choose to reside in the sanctity of some subterranean lyrics:
The breath of the morning
I keep forgetting,
The smell of the warm summer air
* * * * * *
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollars
You only got ten
