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Unbuttoned Triceratops..

or that’s what it says right

here on the last page of

writing in this undated

notebook.  Clearly it’s

my writing.  And it can’t

have been forever ago.

And furthermore, 
that would, you’d

think, be quite the

memorable title for

a poem.  What follows—

the supposed body of

the piece called “Un-

buttoned Triceratops”

—is pretty good, too.

Simply:

     Scratching two items off the list, I

     lift my arms.

Well, if I did eventually

type it up to include in

here, I could fairly eas-

ily find it behind this

page somewhere, un-

der whatever roman

numeral.  But I cert-

ainly don’t remember

it.  Which is too bad,

too.  Because this

spoils everything.