tuesdays

the yi plot of land looks so desolate when i pull up into the driveway. dead brown grass, shriveled shrubbery, crooked bird feeder, curtains drawn. i open the door to our ice box of a house (today a frigid 44 degrees). no warmth, so empty, fester-less. but as i take off my shoes, there at my feet a colorful "hello!" buried in the pile of mail that's fallen to the floor. it's here! my new yorker has arrived! on the cover this week is the sad fate of (probably most) books.