Mother takes her bath at nine
and is benevolent enough
to allow me to reuse her bathwater.
I sat there for a long time just staring.
Uncle Larry phoned
about the annual softball game.
Third base is fluctuating
between parody and metaphor.
Read the newspaper obituaries on the porch.
Ninety-five percent of
all thought is conjecture.
Post was late again
so I read the comics,
that little red-haired girl
is still enticingly noncommittal.
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