Wednesday.

Today won't be a great day.
A couple of books will make me love
while traveling by car
with the sun melting the windows.
Later,
someone will phone
asking for Marlena,
Greta,
Clara,
or Sofia,
And I'll say "you're wrong,
Does it rain in New York?
I feel like stepping in puddles".
Then, at night,
both sides of the pillow
will be hot,
the bladder will begin to ache
just when I start dreaming of you,
and I'll hear my father snoring,
dying,
in the next room.