Mix a little of the Eastern shore with some teardrops and the sound of a song you haven't heard in years but remember quite well, and you might have it. This is where we're supposed to talk to the people who mark us? Of them. I've got a telephone that I use sometimes. And at other times it sits in its cradle getting juice for when I need it. And I could really go for some juice right now.
Who am I talking at? What am I saying?
When the scooters fell from vacation they were weary, having been used so much--it was like work for them and all the laughing that happened when Johnny took a spill into the causeway. Beloved women housing their lips and caresses in the shade. A line of salt swept pines. The wind through them could be another kind of song.
Something borrowed. Something blue. A cupful of sugar. A headful of shoes.