"the oil blob" roaming the gulf like the grim reaper

a portrait of my shoes holding up better than I am

address book entry an entire page dedicated to how many times she has moved

a july pattern the recycled heat drifting in from the gulf

moving up a notch in the charts this week the crooning of cicadas

solar eclipse a lot farther south than any of my windows

reruns on tv sometimes the clink of the ice machine is our only conversation

a cool front never staying long enough to carry us through july

tired of seeing the bloodshot numbers of a digital clock going through the change

just like everyone else the fly takes off when it's time to do the dishes