On a night such as this, what can I do but post something by Tu Fu?
Now high autumn has cleared my lungs, I can
Comb this white hair myself. Forever needing
A little more, a little less-- I'm sick of drug-cakes.
The courtyard miserably unswept-- I bow
To a guest, clutching my goosefoot cane. Our
Son copies my idylls on bamboo they praise.
By November, the river steady and smooth again,
A light boat will carry me anywhere I please.