Beach bag / 12







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Pool ku

pairs of lotioned limbs grow tan on white deck chairs sometimes a page turns a hibiscus bud skips across the chalky deck prodded by a breeze crows drop crusts of bread into the blue pool, a few sink to nevermore styrofoam noodles the color of crayons float in bright water the black and white cat crouches, lapping water slyly then feigns indifference a ring of house keys a pair of yellow flip flops lie in striped shade her gaze enjoins the umbrella’s taut shadow of whom does that girl dream?
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Agatha

It must have been close to Christmas, but on which side, I don't quite  remember. I suspect it was sometime in the January doldrums when all was  frozen and gray. My friend Walter decided it was a good day for a dog. To get  one, that is. "I know I'm me, because my little dog knows me," Walter once  quoted Gertrude Stein. With his boyfriend Joseph away in the hospital, the house  had an unaccustomed empty feeling. And it had been without a dog for too long.  The shelter was in Ann Arbor . We piled festively into the car for the outing. It didn't take long to find her, a black and white ragamuffin puppy, so excited to  see us that her tail seemed to wag her whole body. "This one?" I said, my inner  ten year old going can we get her? Huh? Can we? Can we? On the way home in  the car Walter chuckled, "I don't know whose eyes were more pleading - hers or  yours." Walter named her Agatha, in honor of Miss Christie, the doyenne of our  mi...
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