The day unfolds like a leisure suit squashed at the bottom of a drawer.

Wild, I ran toward you carrying peas as peas slipped through my fingers.

Last night I dragged my cloak over the wreckage and filth clung to my hem.

Inside I eat green beans while outside people smoke pot and read poems.

Add “huzzah” to any sentence to get to seventeen syllables.

Another weekend: I play a cantata and wait for you to call.

Even what we slough off we still live with, until we vacuum it up.

At beauty school, one training head looks like Jesus, another like Cher.

Four hours after the training session, I’m still wearing my nametag.