I Cry Paris in My Sleep (and other things drawn in the margins of my life)

(Photo: Fred Stein)

The finger I use for scooping out coffee grounds from the grinder is black under the nail. If it’s Tuesday then it’s Autumn. The usefulness of a rationale that doesn’t figure. Bee ties. Pigeon cameras. A lamprey in the bathtub. It’s a musical washbox that never gets scrubbed. Cast-iron jealousy hooked to a crane. Piddled away attention. The come-and-go charm of…