Ode to the New Yorker

Yes, the hour is absurd.
And at 1:00 p. m. today I will curse you.
And may even change my mind yet again,
having changed it this morning once already.
Last week I made a vow to myself
and then spoke it out loud to Kevin to make it real.
I will cancel! I will not renew in January!
If I canceled I could spend the next two years reading
the ones I already have. So that's what I will do!
But then my old friend insomnia came calling.
And there you were.
With your ridiculously/deliciously long "letter from moscow"
How else would I learn about the chess pro who aspires to defeat the Kremlin regime?
Or revisit Kerouac through the eyes of a Harvard English professor?
Or read about a translation of Psalms that aspires to preserve the "rhythmic compactness" of the original Hebrew?
newyorker.com I suppose.
Though I find it much less likely that I would get out of bed and come upstairs to read,
and much more likely that I would roll over and snag one from the growing pile beside my bed.
So for now, New Yorker, you are safe.
One more year at the professional rate (I do not know why I receive this rate and what you think my profession is, but I hope you think I am a writer, even though that's only in my head.)
One more year.
Just don't tell Kevin.