the ivy is turning red

this is supposed to be some poem
about princeton
(the town, the university, the seminary)
that simultaneously bemoaned
my desire to be done with academia
and my desire to love it

where i love reading, alone,
on a bench on Nassau street
outside Macawber Books
and where a woman and her sweet toddler walk by,
and the mother says
"look, she's reading"
to the little girl who bounces beside her in pink tights

and where i sit, half-dozing in front of
every sort of TLC home decor program
(trading spaces, clean sweep, while you were out),
wondering what to make for dinner,
ignoring the books in my backpack,
the emails on my computer,
the ordination forms sitting in their pristine shiny folder,
avoiding everything that demands my attention
as if it would just go away if i chose not to look at it.

and it's raining today.
i could curl up and read (how romantic)
or i could simply complain about being cold and wet.

it's fall.
the ivy is turning red
as are the trees
and once again, i sit and get confused
about what i really want
(and it makes me feel irresponsible.)