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        I sit by the open window, spring breeze
        the curtains flap, reading a short story by
        Hemingway; feel guilty shouldn’t sit and
        read in the middle of day, ought to do
        something practical, like painting a wall.

        I’ll read two pages more, new chapter, then
        I go outside look at the wall maybe it isn’t
        necessary to paint it this year after all the lock
        in the gate only needs a little oil and the hole
        in the fence is for the dog.

        The story will follow me outside and I’ll ask
        again why doesn’t the boxer Olsen run away,
        like I shouldn’t know, trying to glean more out
        of the short story than there is. Hemingway
        was a poet who wrote novels.