This is not plot
although the date is important. Headache
all day and into the Ferry Building
where a duck gets shipped
professorially. Flags at half-mast
for Jerry, also the name of my pet rock
who I picked up in 1970
on Highway 217 North.
What a prognosticator,
me.
Meanwhile,
and the two-headed cat
trying to slurp her food,
I am at Caffe Proust
sipping out wine and acting risotto (or whatever)
where the sky isn’t buttered,
but stippled,
and with less patience.
