mmmmdcciv

Elephants on a Whim

There are no secrets in the room, so I
go outside. I’m Hercule Poirot or Mrs. 

Marple looking for clues. Stick out my 

tongue for a sun lozenge. Sit on a bench 

and doodle in the margins of my—well, 

it’s where i write, it’s leather-bound and 

has emblazoned in gold, all lower caps on
the front, thoughts—until the lozenge has

fully dissolved. It’s a lovely day, and I’d
love to keep it that way. I step into the
bee-chat line hoping for clues, for a bit of
engagement, it’s almost time for lunch.

I’m good with lunch, I like lunch. But do
I have the cash on hand for any? Rather
than dig around to find out, I step into a
bookstore. This will keep me busy for an

hour or two, I’m thinking. I do wonder
what’s happening at home, but I live
alone. As I step out of the bookstore,
I stop to adjust to the sun, and to get

acquainted with the breeze. I haven’t
solved any mysteries thus far. There
hasn’t been anything the least bit myst

erious. I think about the very important 

phone call I took last night. But what 

was important about it? Something about
elephants....    Idiosyncrasies sway like
chaises longues in the afternoon breeze.