The Sun Aims for Sunny
Like a dandy. But the fog lingers.
I finger my invisible drink, imagining
I’m testing the temperature of a pool
before diving in, or perhaps it is a bit
more like slowly dipping a toe into fresh
bathwater. I’m aiming more for funny
than raucous (I think?) as I lift a wet
finger and clear my throat. “Waiter,
there’s a fly over here that’s come un
done.” The poor guy, somebody’s son,
does quite well at his attempt to roll with
the punches without coming across the
least bit flirtatious. “Too bad, so sad!” I
think, pouring out my imaginary drink.
