in an apprehensive pretzel

In An Apprehensive Pretzel

Half in, half out of our bedroom, half in, half out of consciousness,

I was given a diary. The book bore pictures of teddy bears on every

introduction to the president of the Friends of Easter Island, who lived near

talking and commenting about how cold it is. Two thermometers on the shady

occasional disagreements have instead taken the form of informal debate

generally viewed as equivalent to episodic memory. I record these facts:

the kids have distended bellies and are rather scrawny but the older people

completely conditioned to work for a grade rather than for the knowledge

come alive with alarming speed. I watch as the dense greenery runs

on the nursery floor, but I never remembered replacing the green

fortunate col eagues among the drivers using the route. And every

arrangement is until you've used it. If you can't do the job.