“the comfort of reclusion, the poetry of hibernation” ~ Proust   looking forward to a little downtime as a stormy weekend approaches          

before the age of monstrosities

  when a small comfortable home was just enough    


              there were signs during the summer of 1968 she couldn’t remember my name      

paradise lost

    my dad was a blue collar worker, an electrician at one time he worked three jobs just to keep us afloat going out to eat was a luxury and usually meant hitting up the little italian joint down the street I liked playing the jukebox one saturday he surprised us with a road trip to the shore we swam in the ocean…