Passing An April Morning

It is morning in the middle hours of my leisure. I am reading The Great Gatsby, something I have overlooked for all this time. There is something surreptitious about reading a novel, for even my mother wondered why I lingered late into the evening with my companion. The library was a good source of amusement in those days. Reading was a sure escape from the humdrum of a mundane existence. Over the years words and numbers took on meanings I had never imagined. The more I know of them the less I understand what it is they are pointing to. In the light of this April sky-cast day, memories crisscross like avenues and streets in some aging city. I add a generous number of line breaks to bring a tint of meaning to my words.