and he caffeined out the door,
but Wednesday didn't look at all to him
like Wednesdays have before.
I assumed his song would quickly solve the snow,
but it didn't fall in chords.
It was too ubiquitous, or thick, or deaf
to plow with metaphors.
The clouds that hung above his head wouldn't sigh
and weren't so musically
condensed into the milky ones that bloom
inside a cup of tea.
Instead he said he'd recommend I skip
the poem and stand the drink,
so I sipped and sketched the only lines I thought
spit pith enough for me:
Sometimes days are written
By words a page can hold
But most them are given
By ones we'll never know
