on the couch. Turn two burners on high—
spike us each a tomato juice.
Now what? Who am I
kidding; how could I ever finish this book?
Let’s never end, my pretending you’re
here—tis the season and I’ve an ingrown
whisker. When shall we next
have sex? Are you becoming the man your
mother divorced?
Drink the broth as Ron delivers
one file after the next:
ding! ding! ding!
