194. Just to be on the safe side: A pigeon and I cross the street with a green light. A left-turning car looms, slows to a crawl ceding us the right of way. The pigeon and I hop-trot to the corner.
195. Your clothes lie undressed of you on the bed.
196. On the edge of my peripheral vision, the woman’s hand swoops down and the small child screams. I turn: a beach ball descends and the child squeals, “Mommy do it again!”
197. Butterfly flutters / in early autumn sun glare / to grass and stays….leaf
198. I keep forgetting to cancel my Wednesday doctor appointment. Monday 2 a.m. I remember and call the service. I am told: “Your appointment isn’t until Wednesday!? Why can’t you call the office tomorrow? I'm very busy here.”
199. Today I saw two who looked like but were not you.
200. Baudelaire: “Eternal superiority of the Dandy. What is a Dandy?”
201. Erin and I with our dachshund Latte in the tiny hill town of Monteriggioni (ringed by towers Dante called “horrific giants”). A woman approaches with a 5-year-old shyly behind. “My daughter fell in love with your dog in Florence!”
202. My father liked his coffee dark, very dark. He’d open the wrong side of the milk container and let a few drops dribble into the cup—a technique he learned from his mother, who didn’t realize it was the wrong side.
203. Why William Burroughs wouldn’t push the button on my tape recorder at the beginning of his talk, preferring that I come up and do it myself: “I don’t like to fool with other people’s machines.”
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