met Mozart on the walk home today. most kitties are hot dog shaped; he is cottonball shaped and mostly fur. he was quite busy, stalking and pouncing after two adolescent squirrels. large cute fluff chasing little cute fluff. he came to me straight away; scritches trump hunts.

i like our word games. cop a feel, feel a cop, Mr. McFeely is not a cop; at Dirty Frank’s i’m the vegetable, and he’s the wurst.


sitting at the window of a single-origin, farm-to-cup cafe cum roaster; drinking my Ecuadorian macchiato. a man strides past with 8 yellow roses in hand. he is thin and unkempt; his dusky t-shirt overly large; the flowers naked, free of obligatory greenery, wrapping, ribbons. my mind leaps to calculations about this man who is not the median of my experience; inferences about his incongruous bouquet. pity. then guilt–he is the hero of his story.

have to make it to that fancy flower shop by 7 tonight, just before closing time. it’s Bernice’s birthday today, and yellow roses are her favorite. has been since she was 5. they throw away loads of perfectly good flowers on Tuesdays; bound to be a few yellow roses. such beautiful things for nothing. mama will be proud. and Bernice will be tickled.

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