Oh a silent house! Finally. The kids are in bed. I am finally by myself at my writing desk. These momments always make think about that William Carlos Williams poem "Danse Russe":

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disk
in silken mists
above shining trees, --
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely.
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,--

who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

I have finally finished a poem again! And had my reading list approved. Now if I could only get my son potty trained...