D A N G E R (not really)

[fflo]

The empty chair at the bookstore put me in front of two shelving units of True Crime.

The colors of True Crime are red and black. The font of True Crime is as bold as the criminal, with nary a serif in sight.

When the hippie lady left, I gladly took over her seat in front of the window, where I could add to a response to a call for poems with hands, cuz they have the book in here, and look out over the parking lot and note that even this hottest of days of this Ann Arbor year, muggy if breezy, is free of the steamy mirage of wavy misery over all that sun-faded asphalt, say, between Baltimore & D.C., or along some suburban strip I might have stopped and got out in on an August 9th, and boy howdy how I do not miss that.

I think I'll text somebody in PA who's been scaring me in a good way, see if she might see about bringing a little cool lake breeze back with her.

Then I think I'll buy this pretty stationery I picked out & go sit in the air conditioning of some other place that still has tables & write a letter to my friend who was born on the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.