What we have doesn't seem straightforward, ordinary, or plain. This is not to say what we wanted was nothing more, nothing less than what we imagined everyone else had. What's in the blood, anyway, that predisposes one to pine or linden instead of oak, dried laurel and yerba buena instead of iodized salt. Why does anyone have two or more sets of anything: flatware, children, names; and why does it seem to take at least two lifetimes to start getting some things right. I still don't know how many little spoons besides the big one on linen cloth, how many forks and where they go next to the knife. Just when we think we've gotten the hang of being attached to, the strings loosen their taut hold against the board and we try to key everything in again.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.