The hoary day was finally fading and the bar was calling, or the bartender, something I have yet to figure out, but swear I will one of these days over one more beer, but I wanted to write something special in under ten minutes, so I grabbed a yellow square and rustled through the kitchen drawer for a pen and trotted into the bathroom to sit on the king's seat and compose prose on a winter's day about politics and loneliness and why I write listing poems, and why all the women I end up loving leave me sitting here to think about the reason why these days don't pass fast enough and why the toilet won't flush after the first hint of snow.