Sunday Afternoon

An old (a.k.a. "antique") milk bottle from Dublin, Georgia. It sits on our front porch waiting for the agrarian South to rise again and reclaim what's being chewed up and spit out in the mechanized world of post-Moloch. Today I'm thinking, "damn, I've got it good." Good home life. Good gig here in Iowa. Also, it's overcast. So the crickets are singing love songs while Eleanor naps. Apparently, one of Janelle's clients is in crisis - she's been on the phone with 'em for a while now, out on the back porch. Low tones. Crickets. Sunday afternoon.

Two days ago, I read at a poetry reading. Not my poetry. A friend's. It was sort of a post-modern stage performance. I was onstage. Except that it wasn't really a stage. I think I was the narrator. Yes, I was the narrator. He - my friend, the poet - kept calling me "the narrator." And so. As far as I could tell, the poem - er, play - was about a love affair between a girl and a boy. The poet was also in the play, as was his new girlfriend. In fact, that was the entire cast. I'm not sure what we were doing up there, any of us... After the show, I ducked out, purchased a solitary burrito on the pedestrian mall, and made it home before Eleanor went to bed. Then Janelle and I stayed up late, talking about funny things like plays that are poems and burritos that cost eight dollars.