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Robinson Sends a Letter to Someone

Kathleen Rooney

Cento I

Much to say: don't know how to begin.
Sunday. Berlioz (uneven) on the radio,
with Mr. Enesco or whatever conducting.

The highschool boy across the hall whistles
with quasi-cheer (close the transom,
we can't hear the goddamn Berlioz);

the psychopathic dog downstairs whimpers,
barks, is mildly scolded;
                           the gas splutters;
dark sky; snow coming they say. A note
to myself is stuck in the mirror: "Remember
to get book at lib." Too many cigarettes.
The old despair. The soot peacefully
floating in the cold afternoon. I'm not
doing what I want to do;
is anyone?              How to begin?

Kathleen Rooney

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