T.

Today I rubbed black paint into the surface

of fishbowl-shaped vessels, onto the image

of a dandelion gone to seed. Scritch scratch.

Black-splotched fingers. (I get paid to do this.)

When M. announced that she had made her

spinach soup, a cheer rose from our crowd-of-four

because today it was winter, again.

Perhaps we should dine on gazpacho on Thursday

when summer arrives with a nearly fifty-degree

temperature change predicted.

Wool, or cotton? Goretex or linen?