augury doggerel

Thursday, August 28, 2003


A girl at the pub sits next to me, another forward blond, maybe four years old, and takes my paper and pen and draws me. I think those fingers are mine. She says the fuzz on the chin is definitely me. But the bloody radio makes me cry, so I lift her from her stool, thumbs under oxters, and get her back to her mother in time. It's a lucky thing, this evasive cold.


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