Woe

Talked last night with my first wife, Lila. She was terrifically clever and funny, as always, but also warmer than in the past. I wept as I hung up the phone. She married a Republican--a successful fellow by conservative measure, that being purely financial. Lila sounds happy on the surface.

But to purge the usual regret, I started cooking and called Nawaz, who is the closest thing I have to a friend in this place. He brought a whole chicken, which we opened like a book and doused in olive oil, lemon and sage then grilled. I made gnocchi, but it was too slimy. My chopped olive sauce tasted fine, though it was the consistency of toothpaste. Overall it would have been a failure save for a decent grigio I found at, of all places, Aldi. Nawaz left with a copy of Leaves of Grass and book of poems by my friend Ted Kooser, who is finally getting attention after years as the most underrated American poet. I was still blue, so I ran several student papers from my 101 class through the shredder, though oddly this didn't cheer me.