By Cara Benson
A trapezoid. Piano keys fill soup bowls.
The moon wreaks havoc on the dandy
in a field of proclamations.
A chamber pot. Walk-in closet rife
with used jackhammers. I find a helmet
by the washer-dryer for my free
free-speech call. The power dips
during dinner, sends every clock protesting.
I am reminded I do not declare
enough. Not customs—accounting.
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My entire Tuesday was work and chores, none worth describing. The counters on one side of the kitchen are a lot neater, not that anyone who didn't live here would notice!
We had an Inspector Lewis evening again because apparently we are addicted. I need to find a cheap source of Inspector Morse! Some of the animals at Watkins Park's farm:
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