H is on his way to El Paso again on a job; he won't be home til probably 3am. And like a dummy I'm sitting here depressing myself writing a poem borrowing a line from an Edgar Allan Poe poem, using it as the first line of mine. Oh well. It's working, for sure, I'm actually quite liking it, it's just a tad dark. I'm putting it away to come back to later; time to go feed Penelope and then go watch some mindless TV for a while.