I could be drunk, and in fact aren’t I? the night is middle-aged— it’s Friday midnight, and in my quiet house I rush, I dust, I rinse, I scrub, I busy myself with cleaning and straightening. I trim my coleus and creeping charlie. I wash windows, I burn incense, I polish my reflection in the mirror. I sweep, I mop. I do the dishes, dump the garbage, and gather spiderwebs from the ceiling. Why would I do these deeds if they didn’t make me happy? I could be at a pool hall drinking beer; I could be at a movie house eating candy bars and popcorn; I could be with a friend or two discussing poetry and Eastern religion; but not on your life, I’m on a rampage, doing things that I haven’t done because I’ve said that they don’t matter.
6 December 1980