They Romp with Wooly Canines
By Patricia Smith
and spy whole lifetimes on the undersides of leaves.
Jazz intrudes, stank clogging that neat procession
of lush and flutter. His eyes, siphoned and dimming,
demand that he accept ardor as it is presented, with
its tear-splashed borders and stilted lists, romance
that is only on the agenda because hours do not stop.
Bless his sliver of soul. He's nabbed a sizzling matron
who grays as we watch, a thick-ankled New England
whoop, muscled to suffer his stifling missionary weight.
Earth-smudged behind the wheel of her pickup,
she hums a tune that rhymes dots of dinner trapped
in his beard with twilight. Is it still a collision course
if you must lie down to rest? Bless her as she tries
on his name for size and plucks hairs from her chin.
Bless him as he barrels toward yet another wife
who will someday realize, idly, that her only purpose
in this dwindling novella of his days is to someday
lower his heralded bulk, with little fanfare, into a grave.
We got Groupon half-price tickets for the International Spy Museum and Paul really wanted to go while the James Bond villains exhibit was there, so we went downtown on Sunday. A lot of the museum has changed since we were there in 2006, with bigger exhibits on historical and literary spy-masters, and the Bond exhibit was lots of fun -- some costumes, some props, lots of video clips, though sadly lacking Sean Bean's underwear!
We had dinner with my parents and celebrated Chanukah with them (I got earrings and some money, plus Paul got me the fourth season of Warehouse 13 on DVD). Then, while the Redskins still looked like they might play a decent game, we took an hour off to watch Masters of Sex and came back to discover that the only thing that sucked more than the Redskins was the officiating! The NFC East just sucks this year!