Mondays, I start a letter. I read through
my notes on everything that happened last week.
I skip the sports news, which didn't interest
you except for Manchester United.
Tuesdays, I brood about
the existence of God and the soul.
If I didn't limit this to one day,
it could take over the entire week.
Wednesdays, I do the week's shopping,
buying foods I couldn't get you to eat.
Afternoons, I watch movies you'd have hated.
Evenings, I work on the letter.
Thursdays, I visualize heaven.
It's partly the gold mosaics of Saint Mark's Cathedral,
combined with an English village
and a dash of Mardi Gras.
Fridays, I deal with my rage.
Saturdays, I go out to dinner,
learning to be unafraid
of a table for one.
I'm not a recluse, after all.
Sundays, I deliver my letter. I place it
among the twisted roots of an oak tree.
An armadillo there, a friend of mine,
will bring it through the roots to you.
