I hesitate to label this an awful day. It's clearly not. Outside, a view
Of brittle beauty, cool, but sunny, so autumnal. Turning leaves turn
In a breeze. I'm sick. The day, then, is diminished. I drift in and out
Of sleep, incapable of sustained labor, fogged in, stupid, consequently
Reconciled to my fate, which is to ride the coming hours like a dullard
On a bus, mind devoid of any thoughts, until I reach the night.