Monday, September 24, 2007

It Happened on the Twenty-Third

I lied down in the grass with oil on my face. No mechanic's righteousness could guide this mower's soul back down the path to my dwelling. My beer even spilled. Surely the rest of my days of my life would feature some goodness and love and not this trouble I wouldn't wish on my enemies.

Rod came by to shepherd me to a place near Stillwater. I didn't want to go at first, but he said he had a dinner reservation at a snooty French place. The food and staff made for a comfortable night.

Even though we walked through the valley between the old buildings, we didn't fear the evil of the fios gras, for together; we had shadowy death on the run.

1 comment:

Madelia said...
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