Happy Birthday to you, Dancing Daddy McCarthy! I wish you all you wish yourself, and I wish I could heal you.
All play and no work makes my new job very rewarding and strangely busy. So sad it can't last. My melancholy poem for a change tonight:
Dedicated to: The torpedo nearly missing your future valet. (full stop)
Yesterday = the new arrangement for HRH and me.(stop)
Prediction = fits of confusion but happy endings from now on. (full stop)
Duke and I walk Green Lake together.(stop)
Late evening, we walk down Birke Gilman until his cell phone rings.(stop)
I ramble on and on about my love of a rusty ship that floated away. (stop)
He shares a silly life in Germany, then S. Francisco, and now S. America. (stop)
I don't like oceans anymore. (full stop)
We laugh and listen to some great sounds over coffee and cider.(stop)
My pain gets the better of me. When did I fracture my finger? (stop)
Why did I just find out? I feel weak.(full stop)
Duke's brother-in-law is a doctor.(stop)
I get some healing advice, and a really great kiss goodnight.(stop)
The face stubble becomes you. "The Song is You." (stop)
Flash. (stop)
We will meet again in July. Will I remember this? (full stop)
Today is uneventful, less-perfect, busy, yet a playful void. (full stop)
And, tomorrow my darling leads an adventure through Portland, and we drink mimosa.(stop)
I nearly miss you. (full stop)