Some days I don't feel like talking.
Some days I push away my affection-seeking dog.
Some days I like to lounge around doing nothing, or stand outside in the yard,
gazing at the mountains and feeling the wind slap my face.
My to-do list grows longer, like my five o'clock shadow.
The clock ticks, each tick longer than the last, but always too short.
Some days, I just feel down, no reason.
There are
two types of poems that I write. One, I'm deliriously euphoric (or
europhically delirious, your pick) with some kind of emotion, good or bad (but
good in its badness), and the show-off in me can't keep it to myself. The
other, I'm transfixed by ennui (or do I transfix it?), and in my French boredom
(or bored Frenchness) I open a blank page and put metaphorical pen to
figurative paper.
You Francophile, I say to myself. Francophiliac.
Sounds like a disease.