It floated like a butterfy and stung like a bee.
In 2016, the strawberries tasted like strawberries, and the snozzberries tasted like snozzberries.
We put our red shoes on and danced the blues.
A life that orbited the Earth in only five hours finally splashed down at sea.
The clever man in the bright blue flowered suit asked his final question from the sidelines, putting a hand to his ear piece and leaning closer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Luke who?” Luke KEE-ME-UH. I am 10 feet tall, 800 pounds. And I always win.
The elevator tried to bring us down. Go crazy, punch a higher floor.
2016, when we cannot drive a Rolls-Royce in Beverly Hills anymore. Dahlink.
Your top hat, Mr. Russell.
Ralph, finally pardoned from The Shot Heard Round the World.
We went to Iowa. For reasons we can’t even fathom.
We went to the marsh on a spring day, flush the great blue heron from its silent occupation. We scattered marsh hens as we sank to our knees in mud, opened an oyster with a pocketknife and fed it to each other from the shell and said, ‘There. That taste. That’s the taste of my childhood.’ We said, ‘Breathe deeply,’ and we breathed and remembered that smell for the rest of our lives, the bold, fecund aroma of the tidal marsh, exquisite and sensual, the smell of the South in heat, a smell like new milk, semen and spilled wine, all perfumed with seawater.
2016, when our drink was ice tea mixed with lemonade.
Detective Fish died. Again.
When it was still a sin to shoot a mockingbird.
And Obi-Wan Kenobi was our only hope.