In my family, a convent in Lucerne, Switzerland loomed legend large.
Its name is “La Madone Noire” (the Black Madonna) and according to my mom, it is a “finishing school” where captious girls, who lied or who wouldn’t behave, were sent to live with and be schooled by nuns.

It was, from all reports, a terrible and stern place where there was never any ice cream or bedtime stories and the toys, when there were any, were made of straw.

Most of the time it was my older sister Annick getting the dark Poe-like lectures, but I was there, in my high chair, listening wide-eyed. The very idea that Annick could be snatched up, for some infraction, and sent off to the nuns horrified me to the point that my heartbeat seemed to come through my whole body.

Eventually, as we grew, “Lucerne” became a shorthand for “shape up or else,” and oddly,  it never lost its potency. Hmm, you know, come to think of it - there was no equivalent monastery for my brother.

When I’m seeking solutions to life’s larger questions,
I visit that sacred location where millions of people pray,
desperately, for answers - the bathroom mirror.

Ugh, has my hair looked like that all DAY?

Sometimes I
want to yell "I don't care"
in my mom's face.

When she blithely tries
to measure my sad prison
world to her own youth.

That prehistoric
reality, of phonebooths and
whatever, back then.

But I know those
words would freeze in the air
like a neon sign.

And very probably be
etched on my tombstone
as an epitaph.

I’m learning a lot, dating Peter. For instance, I have a whole new awareness of how clueless older Americans, like people in their mid-twenties, are about things in the modern world.

I think Peter’s learning things too. Like the other night, I was 30 minutes late because I was gluing little, glittering rhinestones to my eyebrows. Was he mad? Yes, we had a little drama, but that’s just because he hasn’t learned to respect my lifestyle choices.

“Don’t be mawkish Peter,” I softly advised him, while fixing the caller of his shirt, “look, let's just pretend that we squabbled over this, and I won?” I suggested, helpfully. “It’ll save us time and WOW, we’re running late, OK? Seeing some small, lingering irritation, I promised, “We can still makeup later.”

The rhinestones looked spectacular, I got a LOT of compliments and in the end, I think he liked them. You know, sometimes I’ll catch him looking at me, like the moon or something, like I’m out of reach.

Guys are so.. (searching for a word).

It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).

Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.

I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.

There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.

Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.

Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.

My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” (**** war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.

(Leeza, my roommate Lisa’s little sister, was off-tha-hook earlier this summer)

thirteen
peach flesh
fabuk buster
nu-metal priss
sexless *******
bitten fingernails
***** babyskin feet
mirror mesmerized
straight-eyed honesty
grouchapottamus
without analysis
corollary sister
wide eyed
hot mess
skinny
pacer
bella
doe

I heard the door open. It was Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister),
she’d been out on a date. I was the only one in the living room
as she came in and sagged, dejectedly onto the huge, white
sectional couch, right next to me. She looked positively
deflated. Which is unusual because up until now,
she’s been all freckles and smiles

Ok, here’s where we get poetic and rhyme, with innuendo and allusion:

Me: “Did you have a good time?”
Leeza: “No but I was trying.”
Me: “Did he get handsy—the swine?”
Leeza: “Argh! No—but his kisses are a crime.”
I gasped: “You didn’t give him a climb!?”
Leeza “NO!” she said, somewhat horrified.
Me (trying to be neutral): “No judging, it would have been.. fine (I lied).”
Leeza: “That’s never going to happen.”
“Good,” I declared, “he was just a distraction—and, you know Santa.”
“What about Santa?”

Whew, that’s enough of THAT (rhyming business).

She asked, so, yeah, I sang it.. I had to.

“He knows who you’ve been kissing,
what you’re thinking when you’re awake,
he knows if you’ve been bad or good—
he’s kind of like a cop that way.”

After a moment's silence Leeza asked,
“Is there something creepy about that?”
“Only if you think about it.” I admitted,
as she put her head on my shoulder.
.
.
A song for this:
Fairytale of New York (feat. Kirsty MacColl) by The Pogues
.
.
A Christmas Playlist! There’s 6 days til Christmas (and Hanukkah)
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3

Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespeare’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lie here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia’.

That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.

Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.

Shall we poetize?

I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.

It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.

A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, ******* clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
.
Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean

The bright sunrise made the snow-covered Alp mountain-tips, an hour-away-by-car, glow like they were topped with lemon ice-cream. Was this evidence of magic?

Peter (my bf) and I are low atop the five story Hotel de la Paix, in Geneva, which seems like a small town - with only 10 slightly interesting things to see - like a large fountain - gimme a sarcastic ‘wow’ (so sue me Geneva board of tourism).

Unless you're planning to launder money, go elsewhere (free travel advice). In fact, Geneva is SO boring, they should assume anyone traveling here (who’s not a physicist or the girlfriend of a physicist) is laundering money and just lock em’ up.

The Keurig in our room gurgled as it turned out yet another sub-standard cup of coffee. I’d started the contraption, brushed my teeth and jumped back in bed. But the thought of yet one more lousy cup of coffee was depressing. “Run down to the lobby and get us some real coffeeee,” I wheedled at Peter, helplessly.
“I’m not dressed‽” he exclaimed (he was in his boxers), like that was an acceptable excuse.
“This is Europe,” I foisted, “They don’t care. GO!” I tried my best to push him out of bed, but he was immoveable.
“Order room service,” he offered lamely, ignoring my pushing on him as hard as I could.
“That’ll take forEVER,” I moaned.
“We don’t have forever.” he pronounced smugly, “You’d better hit the shower,” he added, looking at his watch.
I checked - he was right. 15 minutes later, I was showered and dressed - a skill I learned in pre-covid high school.

Pater was on his laptop at the tiny office desk they gave you in supposedly luxury hotel suites.
“Today’s our last calm day, for a while,” I’d said, kissing him on the cheek, “we need to savor it.”
“The flight’s in three hours,” he’d replied - and again, looking at his watch, “Our Uber will be here in 20 minutes.”
“Two points to Slytherin house,” I said, defeatedly - the ‘busy’ was starting.
“I’m a Hufflepuff,” he said, in a ‘don’t you even know me​​‽’ way.

“Maybe we just shake hands and pretend we liked each other,” I said, dryly, “that would be perfect⸮”
He wrapped his long, ape-like arms around me and reminded me of the alternative option.
“You could always stay here, in Geneva, in my little apartment, all day, while I go out and work - for the rest of the summer,” he said invitingly.
“As irrational as that sounds,” I sighed, “I’d end up chewing the furniture, like an angry puppy.”
“They just don’t make wives anymore,” he lamented, “even though there are substantial tax advantages.”
“Aww, my dominant little male, man-baby,” I cooed in baby-talk, “You want to be my tax deduction!”
“I like when you talk down to me,” he confided, “It motivates me.”

I knocked on the door to the adjacent suite (where Lisa and David are), ‘Uber in 17 minutes.’ I called.
A moment later I heard a muffled, “Yep,” Lisa’s reply.
“Shotgun!” I called, thinking of the Uber seating.
“I already called it,” Peter said.
“You LIE!” I shrieked referentially, pointing at Peter like Valerie, Miracle Max's wife in The Princess Bride.
He chortled, getting it.
I was ready. Bring on the flight to Paris, the dress fittings, the make-up planning, the shoe and accessory decisions - the Grand Masked Ball (at the Versailles Palace) was in two days. I was ready, I could take it.
.
.
songs for this:
Nobody by Kate Earl
The Spot by Your Smith

We children gathered around the table.
The aromas were rich and dense, we fidgeted.

But we had one last thing to do - before we began the feast.
We all, in our places, held hands, smiling, as my dad began to sing
- and, after a beat, we all joined in.

To the tune: “Rudolph the red nose reindeer”

“Leonard the big leg turkey
had two great big turkey legs
and if you ever saw them
you would actually say, “they’re big.”

All of the other turkeys
they would laugh and call him names
they never let poor Leonard
join in any turkey games

Then one foggy Thanksgiving eve
The pilgrims came to say,
“Leonard with your legs so big”
“How’d you like to join our Thanksgiving gig?”

Then how all the turkeys loved him
and they shouted out with glee
“Leonard the big legged turkey,”
“you’ll go down in history.”  (like the light bulb)
“you’ll go down in history.”
“you’ll go down well with graveyyyyyyyyyy.”

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

I have a great piece coming up. This isn’t it, I misplaced it,
but as soon as I find it, I’ll post it. This one is less-than-perfect.

The less-than-perfect summer felt like love.
There were some genuine moments of glamor
and a few new, intense, sense-memories to relish.
It wasn’t easy but we performed that magic called
holidaymaking - things in life don’t just happen.

Ok, some things just happen, like slip and falls,
heatwaves, hurricanes, car accidents and aging,
but the good things, like love, and hotel bookings
usually require a little planning and effort.

On the beach there’s a sense of infinite space,
but it comes with its own kind of circumscription.
You know, deep down, that it’s only summer,
and the paradise offered is slippery and temporary.
It’s the dark side of long holiday freedom, that
the discordant noises of fun soon fade, like tans.

Strips of perfect polaroid pix, will be stuck to my dorm room wall -
scenes that will act as talismans, tchotchke-like reminders of
overly straightened hair, sweet kisses and foolish shenanigans.

So, bring on the less-than-perfect hours of study,
I’ve done it before and I’m just about ready.
Bring on the weeks of less-than-perfect sleep,
It’s senior year, the experience should be unique.
Bring on the less-than-perfect social submission,
I’m a less-than-perfect ******* a less-than secret mission.
.
.
Songs for this:
Don't Forget the Sun but The Explorers Club
Feel It Still by Portugal. The Man

08.18-2:15p

Let politicians claim virtue,
and abandon honest men.

Let the poor inherit promises,
and be comfortable servants.

Let the famous enjoy advantage,
and carry no favors in heaven.

Let physicians prescribe hope,
and a worthy price be paid.

Let education forge solutions,
and notorious liars lose favor.

Let simple humanity be rewarded,
and tyranny reap the sorrow of death.

I miss the open highway
I’m besotted with quick getaways.
What other sensation can compare
to pulling G’s with wind-whipped hair?

When my foot’s on the throttle,
I feel unstoppable.
Faster, faster, no faster,
that’s the rush I’m after.

Where are we going?
There’s just no knowing,
and no matter where we roam,
the GPS will get us home.

One thing was guaranteed,
the speed limit would be exceeded.
I adored the wide open straightaways
and the feeling of a racing-day at Marseilles.

I remember in the Appalachian mountains
the plunging, snake-like, winding canyons
as the speedometer edged past ninety
how my escort, Charles, would glare at me.

I’d let off - a little - and laugh, I mean,
isn’t freedom the American dream?
To hear the growl of a V8 motor,
as it turns rural-roads into roller coasters.

Students everywhere feel a close relationship with summer. It develops early and you never lose it. It’s durable.

Let's  poeticize..
It was a youthful summer of unblemished mirth.
In play, our youthful hours were freely spent.
We bore such idleness - we were indulgent.
Until Lisa confessed she was less so content
and longed desperately for a ‘wholesome reunion’
with her love (Dave) and to resume that courtship in the same
fevered spirit as when they last parted, in Paris.

“Life’s complicated,” Lisa offered, at the end of our talk.
“So complicated,” I agreed.
It’s amazing how quickly a plan can coalesce.

ANNND, we’re back in Manhattan, at Lisa’s (parents) 50th floor residence.
I asked Karen (Lisa’s Mom) once, “If you own this (a floor of a building) is it called an apartment, a condominium..,” my voice faded on the question.
“A residence,” she answered after a moment’s thought. She’s a lawyer.

Georgia got too hot. Not to dwell on the grotesque side of girlhood - but enough sweat already.
Shakespeare (Henry IV) wrote, “sweat extraordinarily, if it be a hot day.” Yep, done that - for really.

In lieu of all our pains, we now want AC, high-end amenities, constant concierge services and stunning views.
We’ll be back in New Haven in nine short days - and back in class in eighteen.
Call 911, someone’s stolen our summer!
.
.
Songs for this:
New York City Serenade by Bruce Springsteen
New York State of Mind by Billy Joel

(Senryus about crushes)

I'd never say to
a guy "Oh, and by the way,
have a crush on you."

I'd never stalk my
crush on the Internet - that's
what our friends are for.

Never let a guy
treat you like licorice - you're
a red gummy bear.

Christmas lights are starting to bloom,
showering multicolored holiday grace across
increasingly bare, late fall suburban landscapes.
I love, I need, the perfectly placed, perfectly timed, whimsy.

I got this glittery, ruby-red, smudge-proof lipstick the other day
and I really have to say technology is what separates us from the apes.

Well, technology and hair.. and.. - ok, let’s not dwell on the ape thing.

Remember when lipstick smeared like news-print? Well, neither do I - it was one of those old-timey things you hear about somewhere like phone-booths, CDs and smart republicans.

What about the young teenage girls who aren’t supposed to wear lipstick - who put it on, in the morning, at their locker, at school only to discover - seconds before their mom picks them up - that it's practically non-removable?  Try hiding your lips from your mom.

I want breath-freshening, pizza flavored, ****-repelling, morning-after-pill lipstick - that glitters, irresistably, like cotton candy ***.

snort If men wore lipstick I’m sure we’d have all that by now.

Lisa, a fellow freshman who lives in our neighbor suite, is a breathtaking beauty from New York - the kind of beauty that toppled ancient Greek empires - a sun-like beacon to the male ***. Anna (one of my four suitemates) gasped and said, “The gods walk among us.” The first time we saw her at orientation.

If Lisa lays in one of the hammocks in the quad to study - in minutes there’ll be 10 guys doing athletic male things like throwing footballs and foot juggling fobs - anything olympian and roughly physical to show off and draw her interest.

Late one afternoon, Anna and I were studying and watching such a scene from a second floor patio garden. Sunny, (another of my suitemates) just returning from class, took in the scene. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

“Are you smelling roses?” Anna observed.
“Better than roses,” Sunny said. Looking down at the preening guys. “They’re gorgeous,” she sighed, “Why can’t I have just ONE?”
“They’re already entranced.” Anna said, peering over her sunglasses.
“Awwww!” Sunny purred, “Look at the pretty one in the orange shorts.”
“Too late, I said, “she’s already culled him out from the herd.”
It was true, Lisa was slowly leading him away from the pack, spellbound.
“She’ll probably eat him.” I said.
“How does she DO that?” Anna asked admiringly.
“I don’t think she even tries - it’s probably pheromonal.” Sunny said ruefully.

Our envy isn’t raw enough to curdle into dislike - we agree that she doesn’t seem to TRY to be the center of attention - we just wonder where she finds the time for it all.

We’re on Fall break this week and Peter’s favorite aunt - Lita - is visiting. Lita’s a tall, slim woman (eek! A guess), in her early sixties. She’s nicely weathered and tan. I’m sure she once had Peter’s blue-black hair but now it’s mostly white and styled in a loose braid. I think she rocks the coastal grandma aesthetic with a wardrobe of mostly pale tans, whites and flats.

Peter has all kinds of stories about her - she’s a character. When Peter was 5, on Halloween, Lita pretended to sacrifice a chicken, cackling, like a witch. He was wide-eyed until she admitted she was just making fried chicken for dinner.

Lita lives on property adjacent to Peter’s parents, but hers is larger, more of a farm, where she raises chickens and grows Meyer-lemons and persimmons. This may explain why Peter slices up lemons, dips them in sugar and eats them like oranges (I shiver). Peter told me that Lita always liked fruit, which is why she bought Apple stock in 1997.

From what I’ve learned, talking to Lita, she practically raised Peter’s dad (David). Their parents had a boy before her, an older brother she doesn’t remember meeting because he drowned at a church outing when she was a toddler. Their parents, in their grief, had turned in on themselves, becoming as self-centered as gyroscopes.

They’d left Lita by herself for weeks at a time, to raise herself on a more-or-less trial-and-error basis. So, when David came along 13 years later, he became her responsibility. She started working as an auto mechanic and eventually opened a couple of shops of her own. She describes herself as more well-read than formally educated - as if knowledge had just settled on her, like dust from an old library.

“Teressa (Peter’s mom) is very curious about you,” Lita confides to me as we huddle together over venti pumpkin lattes, “Peter’s very tight-lipped where you’re concerned.”
“He is?” I ask, confused, “maybe he’s ashamed,” I venture, “or maybe he’s planning to dump me?”  Lita looks amused, ”uh huh, that’s probably IT,” she agrees.
“Look! I say excitedly, pulling an envelope from my purse, “It’s my first-ever paycheck,” I beam. I make a production of opening the thing, like an Oscar envelope. “$223,” I read, shaking my head in admiration, then adding, with sincere sounding hyperbole, ”he can’t dump me NOW, I’m RICH!”

I’m daughtering in place and it’s a full time job.
I'm a posable figurine, like a Barbie for my mom.
She's been shopping in a frenzy, to fill the empty hours.
I think we have an Amazon truck dedicated to our house.
I needed another closet so we took my sister's room
It looks like a Dior outlet-store or maybe King Tut's tomb.
"I think you've gotten carried away," I said to her last night.
Looking at all the loot arranged, she said, "you may be right."

I can’t remember myself
I’m lost
in the attraction
the bleeding need
the ***** impolite hunger
make me somehow matter
soap me with important gifts
drape me with brilliant feathers
curves that bedevil
make me pretty
to him

(a story in trochaic tetrameter)

Even a Prince must bend his knee
to the lass who has won his heart.
“Please be my bride, stay by my side
forever - tell me we shall wed.”

“My love and affections are yours,
they have never been better fed
- you are surely pleasures master,
with your rough hands and softer lips.”

“Then let us petition the clerk,
we can be wed in a fortnight!”

Sometimes love takes dismaying turns.

There are standards, some are double.
The future princess must be chaste.

The clerk asked, “Are you a ******?”

“Do you seek to entrap us, sir?”
The prince asked, his hand to dagger.

“We cannot hoodwink the law, sir.
It must be asked and answered.”

And so the clerk asked it again,
“Would you swear on your honor miss?”

“If I had a virgins honor,”
the possible, future princess said.

The high clerk sighed and sheathed his pen.

“Most honest and least virtuous
lady, the marriage cannot be.”

“So, then the law is strictly tied
to something lost in love’s first blush?”
she asked, with no show of dismay.

“My actions follow the law, miss.”
If the clerk sounded bored, he was.

The prince, however, was outraged.
and on the verge of a salvo.

The clerk feared a soliloquy.

To stall the coming storm, the clerk
said, “I believe you KNOW the King?”

“He’s my father!” The prince revealed,
to no one’s shock or great surprise.

“The King, the law - the law, the King?”
The clerk's finger turned like a wheel.

Somewhere deep in princes mind
a dim bulb lit. “To the Castle!”

The clerk smiled wryly at the lass,
who shrugged back. Love would find a way.

(Inspired by ‘paranoir’ by Riz Mack)

Reckless Jack and fair Jill, youthful hearts aroused,
did scale that hill, less for water, than illicit thrills.

Atop that perilous height, they began a lover’s fight.
Stolen moments, once sweetly solaced, can prove brief.

Alas, the twisted tryst, turned awkward tumble swift,
with clothes askew and most immodest bruises blue.

Honest folk, share this lesson far and wide, by rhyme and tune -
beware young lovers, less passion's tide prove a bumpy slide to ruin.

What stands guaranteed?
The moon's drifting away, oh
inconstant cosmos.

Gravity fights us,
taxes come due, boys will ******,
some things are certain.

What about love? We
need extended warranties
for consumer faith.

Permanent pressed
love - no crumpled hopes
- investor safety.

“Love bonds”, or "emo-
care?” No worry, we’ll find a
marketable name...

It was 64ºf and overcast this morning when Lisa and I started our 5-mile jog to the New Haven Harbor and back. We always start our semesters this way. We’re emotionally ready for fall weather and hopefully, a long and cruel winter.

Sunny, Lisa, Leong and I were starting the morning with breakfast together. We have summer catching up to do.

Of course, Sunny never does the expected. Over a bowl of heart-shaped Cheerios in the cafeteria, she announced that she’s “really going to try this year.”
“That's a choice,” Leong admitted dryly.
“You mean academically?” Lisa asked, for clarification purposes.
“Wait,” Leong updogged, “Did your parents ask for proof that you were here?”
Sunny rolled her eyes, she knew she’d get trolled with a newfangled declaration like that, but she meant it and she wasn’t tempted to elaborate.
“You’re a phoenix, rising from the ashes,” I said encouragingly.
“It’s a 4th in a lifetime opportunity,” Lisa noted.
Handling university academics is largely a structural task.
All it requires is artfully arranging information and slices of time.
“You’ve got this,” I affirmed.
“Let’s not get excited,” Sunny cautioned, “One reason I’m so hot is that I’m emotionally unavailable.”
“It’s your best quality.” Leong observed.

Tick tock, we’re all still unpacking but things are taking shape. Senior year starts in 3 days.
.
.
A song for this:
Suddenly I See by KT Tunstall
Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing by Stevie Wonder

We were in the cafeteria, having just sat down with our trays. The place, which looks like a modern, medium sized ski lodge, was almost empty. I’m registering more and more faces these days. Most are transient acquaintances from the dorm or classes. There were nods. My little group was my roommate, Leong, myself and a girl named Lucy from our chemistry class. Lucy can solve a chemical equation faster than either of us - she calls herself an idiot savant.

Lucy’s one of those overwrought girls who don’t believe food is necessary for survival and who stare anxiously at blueberries. Lucy’s tray has a spoon, a napkin and one small, plain yogurt on it. I got salmon, a bit of Pad Thai, a slice of pizza and some desert. You could feed a family of four from my tray. I always sit with my back to windows - it’s a glare avoidance thing.

Right after my first bite I saw Jordie. The world narrowed to Jordie. He was emerging from the serving area and seemed to enter the room like an actor coming center stage. He was dressed for soccer, complete with knee-high socks, shoes with cleats that clacked like a tap-dancer and little shorts - it was 39°f outside.

“Jordie,” Leong said, in a whisper that held the enthusiasm a cop would use to declare “GUN!”
I couldn’t register an answer, I was transfixed. Then Leong did something I’ll never forget - she raised her arm in a peremptory wave, signaling Jordie over to our table.

I turned to her in stark horror, but just as my lips started to form the words “***,” he was upon us. “Morning!” He says, as he slides in directly across from me and begins organizing his lunch. I look down at my plate, concentrating on my noodles like a bomb disposal tech, defusing a nuclear suitcase bomb.

“Beautiful day.” he says, looking out on the bright, crisp morning in back of us. Leong starts a conversation with him about soccer. It’s clear that she’s been talking to him but I’m not really listening. I’m watching him. Watching him fixedly, surreptitiously in my peripheral vision. Watching him eat, talk and breathe - he breathes just like a regular person only better.

Then Leong and Lucy start moving, gathering everything up to leave. I realize I haven’t actually eaten anything much - a bite of Pad Thai maybe. I stand as well, looking down, wrapping my slice of pizza in two napkins and stuffing it, an apple, a blonde-cinnamon-roll, an orange and three chocolate walnut cookies into my bookbag.

Jordie looks up from his tray. I have such a crush on this guy. It’s heady and embarrassing. His gaze makes me feel like I have awkward, grasshopper limbs. He smiles unreservedly and it hits, like a force multiplier, I’m sure I flushed crimson. I’m surprised how strongly I can respond to his just looking and smiling at me.

As we leave the cafeteria, walking towards the residence, I turn on Leong, “What was THAT?!” I ask, beginning to work myself up into something.

“I’ve been friendly with him - we have English class” Leong patiently explains, “I wanted you to meet him and get a chance to talk,” and after a moment of silence she adds, “and you never said anything!”

I shivered - the wind was freezing - only an idiot would play soccer out in this cold.

I don’t care if my crush is embarrassingly obvious to my friends. It’s pleasantly, invisible to others - I think.

I want to relish the pining - the lusting - it’s delicious. There are times you don’t want to talk to the guy - you just want to keep crushing.

You don’t want to learn things about the man - the red flags - and you always learn EVERYTHING, like what their major is or that they’re a man’s man.

In the learning, they slip from that lofty echelon of dream-lovers - you lose the hot, playlist feeling - the cheesy, corny, giddy, love SICK.

Maybe that’s where love’s real thrill is - in our imaginations. So give me the mystery - for now.

Mad kings are sly devils,
and like math homework,
they’re hard to get rid of.

Like ex-boyfriends they
waltz the line of patience
with dawdling acknowledgements
and sluggish departures.

You find yourself the airline
agent, “Sorry sir, your departure
is booked and ticket printed -
please proceed to the gate."

everything’s complicated
everything’s a struggle
have you noticed?
it’s a psychological horror
is this feeling the ‘adult disillusionment’ I keep hearing about?

I mean, things work, if you sit on them like an egg—
if your mother things along and helicopter a result.
I mean, what do people do who don't have
my resources and sunny disposition?

I get America’s increasing paranoia but I think that it's *** backwards. Even if someone's were out to ‘get’ you, no one actually cares about doing their job anymore. There's just so little competence around, that the dysfunction feels intentional. And because you need something and you’re helpless, you can't help but feel targeted.

But I think I figured it out, so let me elucidate—they aren't giving YOU bad service, it isn't personal—everyone is getting bad service, two pieces of chicken in the box when you ordered three, five day delivery when you’re clearly paying for two, failure’s become routine—endemic.

My go-to phrase has become, “What’ll it cost?” (the answer, usually: twice as much) “Make it so,” I say, swiping something with my Apple Watch, and suddenly, everything works!
.
.
A song for this:
decide to be happy by MisterWives

Sometimes after Lisa and I do our early-morning 4 mile run (we treadmill in the basement fitness center if it’s under 43 degrees), I come back and lie on my bed, for just for a moment. This morning it was just as the sun broke over the horizon and a pink light crawled across my ceiling, highlighting every imperfection, like craters and mountains on some distant, barren planet. My Apple watch went chikle-inkle-lnkle. Ok, Time to start the day.

Later…

Leong got a new ‘Girls Life’ magazine, those always seem packed with the latest scientific info.
“Studies suggest that you and your deepest friends may share the same blood types!” Leong read aloud.
“I’m O-negative,” she announced, “What blood type are you?” She asked me.
“Red,” I revealed (I am, after all, pre-med).
“DElicious reddd,” Lisa updogged in a Bela Lugosi vampire voice.

“Americans are never serious,” Leong whinged, her voice rising and falling on the last syllables.
“That’s what makes us what we are today,” Lisa asserted, “a slowly, steadily, declining superpower.”
“We could join the military after Yale,” I suggested helpfully, “I bet they’d make us officers.”
“Oh sure, I heard the army’s making men out women these days,” Lisa agreed.
“Sounds messy,” I said, wincing.”

Senryus about my
favorite - my one and
only - mom (so far).

"Mom!, I understand!!"
5 minutes later - wait, what did
she want me to do?

Eating my breakfast
cereal, “Mom!, let’s go to the
lake!,” Mom says, “Can’t.”

“I can’t wait to be
a lifeless professional,”
I say to my bowl.

Mini-heart attack:
Your mom says: "OK, I need to
ask you a question."

TS Eliot said, “Paris is a strong stimulant.”
It is - but it has nothing on Manhattan.
If Paris is a Café Crème espresso at a café-en-terrasse under the stars.
Manhattan is a ‘Black Tie Bawls’ cocktail at The Crown bar (the skyline!).

We were going to relax - in Manhattan,
instead, keep those seat belts fastened.
Lisa said, one night, “Want to go out for a bit?”
Since then, I’ll admit, our nights have been lit. 

We have ten days, and we’ve decided to try every Michelin-starred restaurant we can (there are 68 in NYC). So far, we’ve been to Eleven Madison Park, Le Bernardin and Per Se. This was Lisa’s idea.

The food is delicious - if you like a corn-flake with something on it or a steak the size of a bouillon cube ($250 per person with cocktails and dessert). As we left ‘Per Se’ I asked, “Can we get something to eat now? I’m starved.” I was only ½ kidding.

It’s MY idea to visit every beautix rooftop bar in Manhattan (there are exactly10). So far, we’ve been to, ‘The Peninsula,’ ‘230-Fith’’ and ‘NoMad’ - we’ve only been at these tasks for three nights.

We’re doing other things too. We’re going to Broadway shows (& Juliet, the Great Gatsby, Oh Mary!, Wicked) and to see Idina Menzel (Wicked, Frozen) in concert and a John Oliver and Seth Meyers comedy show next Monday. We do these, as in - Dinner, show, rooftop bar.
OH, and we’re dancin’ like we’re sentient - no cap.

Our sordid troup, is Lisa and Dave (her boo), Charles & Ms Charles, Lisa’s folks (Karen and Michael) and Lisa’s little sister Leeza and Meeeee. Luckily, we have one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive secretarial minions (François) booking reservations for us. He’s got ‘contacts.’

Yeah, we’re drivin’ full speed towards summer’s end - “fo-shizzle” (to quote Snoop Dogg). We figure we can rest, a few days, in New Haven.
Wasn’t Snoop fire at the Olympics?
.
.
dance club songs, for this one:
One Kiss by Calvin Harris & Dua Lipa
Lipstick by Kungs
Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Levitating by Dua Lipa
.
.
slang…
café-en-terrasse = terrace cafe
Black Tie Bawls = (cocktail) Blavod black *****, lemon, and Bawls energy drink.
beautix = top drawer, rizz
No cap = no lie
fo-shizzle = for sure
fire = great, a standout
[E] = explicit

I envy the stylish model
her styrofoam perfect *******
those legs that never need shaving
the sweet smile that needs no rest
the hair that’s always behaving
the pose that teasingly arrests
she’s a icon of current fashion
a flower neatly pressed
but no love will ever find her
no one cares if she’s undressed
she’ll never accomplish anything
never mind - I’m not impressed

(Inspired by Carlo C Gomez’s ‘The Lacemaker‘)

We’re manufactured girls,
designed to be beautiful and pointless.

Everything we tell you has to be true,
we feel we can open up to you.

We’re decorated and prepared for sacrifice.

We can touch your tender isolation
and reinforce your inadequate truths.

We can mirror your internal struggles
and help you shape your damnation.

You’ve caressed our powerless distress
a thousand times, with sleep's dark hands.

Don’t feel your destroying something beautiful

You know, when privately accessible
in the darkness of your man cave
our soft, immediate shapes
excuse extraordinary behavior.

That’s all we want.
.
.
A song for this:
Genesis. by RAYE

Lisa, Leong and I were supposed to eat at a sushi place called “Bow Wow.” Lisa and I were coming back from our last class. I covered my face with the back of my hand and yawned as we reached the quad. Lisa put her phone in her jacket pocket and said, “She isn’t answering, I’ll go get her.” I nodded and gave her my backpack (we’re all suitemates).

I sat down, cross legged, under a (Japanese maple?) tree, arranging my skirt - the tree had shed most of its leaves, since I’d met it in September. A drift of papery bronze leaves spread out in all directions.

A breeze delicately swayed the tree branches, making flickering patterns of light in the shade. I went from sitting to lying down in the grass, angling for the most of the limited shade. The sky was subtly beginning to darken, as if an Instagram filter on the scene was being tweaked.

How many seasons has this tree observed, I wondered, with all the embellishments those brought - sun, rain, stars, rainbows and flickering, ever changing moons. ​​All from within the limited, open sky frame of the quad. A tree has to be patient - and tough - I thought, there’s no rescue from the New England elements.

The whistling breeze seemed like music and the tree began to dance for me - its branches became waving arms, its leaves making jazz hands - I laughed and clapped. It made a twisting bow at the waist, like a performer.

I woke up when I heard Lisa say, “‘Here she is!” - as if I’d been lost.

Is the wind alive? That’s what the Choctaw believed.
The Apache called it, apocryphally, “the breath of the world.”

To them, the wind is the trickster you never see,
a joker on the plain of life.

What’s always arriving and always leaving?

What’s as old as the world, yet forever current?

Ever present and tireless, it seldom sleeps,
holding up jets, herding clouds like sheep,
filling sails, stirring leaves, causing rough seas.

What’s always passing, but already everywhere?

The Cherokee named ‘air’ the ‘keeper of spirits,”
because it sighs, cries, whispers and moans.
They credited it with great power and influence.

Today, we watch the skies with doppler witchery,
we forecast its path, with the gambler's odds - see,
the wind has turned on us, many times - like a tornado.
.
.
Songs for this;
Colors Of the Wind - End Title by Vanessa Williams
They Call the Wind Maria by Harve Presnell
Windy by The Association

What I love about Star Trek isn’t the plots or even the characters. It’s their casual, daily use of fantastic technologies (think replicators) - for them, the ordinary. It mirrors our own banal use of magic-like wireless, google searches and air travel.
We are marvelous monkeys.

I’m a teenager. I am new and agog - Jesus, I have a lot to learn. How are the many marvels that elevate our lives actually made? The millions of cars, the fuel distribution systems, our skyscrapers. Who thought of all this?
We’re marvelous monkeys.

We can almost cheat death - I saw Marilyn Monroe on TV last night.
It wasn't the real star - just the image of her purring sexuality. The her without the messy adopted-child neuroses, chemical dependencies, loneliness and deeper longings. But it's early days - her DNA is lying around here somewhere.
We’re marvelous monkeys.

My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.

It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.

I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,

It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.

I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways

The other day Lisa, Anna and I overheard a nonversation that took me back in time to high school. We were at Ascot for day three (ladies' day), to see the fashion, the silly hats, the horse races (called stakes & cups) and maybe even gawk at some famous people.

Anna, Lisa and I were sitting at our table in the Windsor Enclosure - a flat area right by the racetrack. The other five girls in our clique (Leong, Sunny, Kim, Bili, and Sophy) had stepped away to be ready for the royals arrival at 2pm sharp.  

Everyone was well dressed, men in waistcoat and tie, and we women in formal daywear. The table closest to us was populated with another squad of college age teens. We tend to be garrulous but that other mixed coterie (16 guys and girls) weren’t friendly at all. They were insular and sharp eyed - they projected an air of smirking pride - a bunch of edinas.

Suddenly this one girl at the next table just comes-at another girl verbally. There seemed nothing the target girl could do except hold her head up, put on her best debate-smile and weather it out.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been exposed to it, but the exclusionary voice of the rich, consists of acrid, inactively-terse asides delivered with casual, drive-by cruelty. The most insufferable rich think (know) that they’re better than you - like you know you’re better than a cabbage or a dog and they are merciless, their hearts are made of hard, black-card plastic.

When used on pretenders, interlopers or social mountain climbers - the cold and mesmerizing bluntness can have a deep psychological effect. The response is usually passive intimidation but it can also induce violence.

This attitude (I think of it as “the voice”), is learned by example, and mastered early. I heard an eight year old girl turn it on a sales clerk once. Her mom apologized and reined in the little princess - but where do you think she learned it from?  

Anna looked at me, her eyebrows drawn down in alarm, Lisa said “Wowzer.” I just shook my head and shrugged - it wasn’t our business, we certainly didn’t know those knobs or what kicked it off - but we noted who the mean girl was - Anna even took her pic. They were Cree-P.

Our little group was soon reunited. We briefly gossiped about our rude, socially-obsessed neighbors but the incident was soon forgotten. Our champagne and strawberries arrived moments before Princess Anne and her daughter, Zara Tindall, rode by (20 feet away) in the Lead Carriage.

Now THERE are some REAL, world-class snobs. I hate that whole-*** upper-class attitude. That’s one reason to choose Yale over Harvard - fewer snobs.

I talked with my parents this morning (they’re in a time zone that’s 6 hours ahead). I’ll be off, back to school, before they get back. They sound very tired, certainly tireder than they did a month ago.

They’re working with “Doctors Without Borders” somewhere in Poland. We have a fiction between us, that they haven’t been in a war zone for the last couple of months, spending 16 (18?) hours a day, in ineffable, meatball surgery - sewing pieces of people back together.

Although our conversation topics are no more important than soap bubbles, they evoke a kaleidoscope of emotions (in me), our mutual deceptions as fragile as eggshells.

As a teenager, I can sometimes be frantic,
unfocused, stressed and anxious.
Luckily, I was introduced to meditation.
I love meditation and the way it makes me feel - solid.

So, how does it work?
First I set a 15 minute timer and get
prepared to look a little foolish.
I sit somewhere comfortable, cross-legged.
I close my eyes and focus on a point
in the center of my forehead
between my eyes, relax my mind,
and think only of the sound of OM.
When your mind wanders, just go back to OM.
Existing in that territory of nothing
there is a silence that must be listened to.
You end up giving sharp attention to nothing.
It is simple, compelling and satisfying.
When you’re done, a new stillness will remain in your mind.

I’ve memories saved for future use
they’re gathering like a storm,
and they’re all mine - fruit on the vine,
I’m prone to dreams and poems.

The question is:
“Are people still collecting
memories, these days?”

"This isolation
isn't bothering me much.”
I say, if I'm asked.

But I’m not sure that’s
true. After hundreds of nights
of dull solitude.

I think each night might
carry a value - of dear,
and unmeasured loss.

Loss of memories
- because they never happened.
How have we all changed?

Leeza (the 13 year old sister of my roommate Lisa) and I are in the building 220 lobby, heads-down on our phones, waiting for Lisa and Peter (my BF). The lobby is huge and deserted except for a lady concierge at the front desk, a security guard and the doorman - all far away from us. This is by way of explaining that our masks are off - mine hanging, useless, on my left ear.

When this unmasked guy, I was grazingly introduced to at last year’s 220-building Christmas party walks up to us and says, “Anais, Hi. You’re back!”

I flinched. I know a lot of people are over the whole mask thing and the covid thing - and have the temerity to risk it all, but I don’t - did I mention flu season or covid variations? Someone unmasked getting unexpectedly up in my personal space is jarring, rude, and on several levels dangerous and scary.

“Oh, hi,” I said. I vaguely recognized him, but I couldn’t remember his name. He’s one of those guys who’s cutely strange looking. He’s short (5’4”) (nothing wrong with that, short kings, you’re valid), his hair’s dark at the roots but blonde tipped (beach-hair?) and when he smiles, and he smiles a lot, his smile looks too big for his face. I remember he’d seemed socially awkward when we met, and Lisa had said his father is someone important.

“Yeah,” I said, with a shrug, “Holidays again.” I briefly bob up on my toes, to glance over Leeza’s head and to my relief, I see Lisa and Peter coming out of the elevator. I decide to mask up and seeing me do it, Leeza does as well.

“I’m sorry,” I said apologetically, “I remember you, but I can’t remember your NAME. I’m an idiot.” I give him my best, ditzy shrug.

He reintroduced himself, “Merritt,” he said, offering his hand and smiling again, still unmasked. As I shook his hand he twisted in Leeza’s direction and said, “Hi Leeza!” She gave him the smallest possible 13-year-old’s courtesy nod.

Peter and Lisa arrived, having masked up. “Merritt, hey!” Lisa said, greeting him warmly. “Have you got senioritis yet?” she asked, cheerfully. “Merritt’s graduating from Brown this year,” she announced, turning to include us all in the good news. “Public policy, ya?” She followed up.
“That’s it,” he confirmed, beaming.
“Congratulations!” I said, nodding.
“Way to go!” Peter added with a “yes” nod.
“Merritt, this is Peter,” Lisa said, taking charge. “He belongs to Anais.” she reported, as they shook hands and exchanged nods. “Merrit,” Lisa said, in a disappointed tone, “I hate to rush off, but we’re in a scramble for a dress fitting,” she lied. Lisa can lie like a politician.

And just like that, in something like 45 seconds she shook-off Merritt - who seems like a very sticky guy indeed - without resorting to mace or anything - Lisa’s got charm.

Thoughts about charm..
My grade, in physics 3 (an A-) was 2-one-hundredths from an A+. I almost certainly (like 85%) could have charmed the professor for that tiny bit. We’ve all seen it done - you put on a self-effacing smile and say, “I’m so close, is there something I can do for extra credit?” But I can’t DO it, physically, I can’t say the words and beg for grades. It’s like I can picture my mom watching me having to beg for something she earned, and I’d be mortified to even try. It’s my small disadvantage, a self-imposed handicap.

Besides, if I did betray my code, there’s the awful chance the professor might say no - and that would **** me.

Lisa, on the other hand, wouldn’t actually have to charm. She’d ask about her grade, periodt. The teacher, seeing there’s something he or she could do for this goddess - would just do it. With no asking involved.

Imagine you’re an airline agent and Beyonce´ stepped up to your station. She has a little problem you could effortlessly fix with a click of your mouse. Would you, do it? Hells-yes you would and before she even asked. “It’s already done,” you’d say - just to have Queen Bey smile at you.

The rest of us have to work at it (sigh) - and take our chances..

Christmas, Yuletide, Noël, Nativity, Saint Nicholas, Mary, Prancer,
Santa, Elves, Yule Log, Eggnog, Reindeer, Turkey, Presents, children,
Birthday, Bells, Jesus, pumpkin pie, Navidad, Kriss Kringle, Dasher
Ornaments, stockings, sugarplums, Holidays, caroling, gifts, Comet
Christmas Eve, Scrooge, cranberry sauce, sleigh bells, Rudolph,
Christmas lights, Cinnamon Apple spice cider, wassail, Angels, list,
Christmas tree, Blitzen, Mrs. Claus, tinsel, jolly, snowflake, Dancer,
Blitzen, North Pole, snowman, wreath, candy cane, gingerbread,
Merry Christmas!

Is liking someone so uncommon
or wanting someone, a new phenomenon?

Are you an April - wreaking the milieu to discourage me?
Is that why you disparage him to such a degree?

He’s heartful and sincerious,
he’s slammin’ hot but oblivious.
He’s music, lust and fun,
all rolled into one.

So, I’m calling you off,
stop blowing up my phone.
You might as well not bother,
We’ve got dibs on each other.

What’s really good?
He’s really good.

Michael, why are you playing so f-king hard to get?
I etched my number into your car, so you won't forget it.
I stalked you day and night just to prove my undying interest.
Did you get the shower pix of you, I intend to post on Pinterest?
I climbed in through your skylight twice, I bet you didn’t know.
I hid in your workplace mensroom, but alas you never showed.
Michael dear, I’m getting vexed, didn’t you see my million texts?
I know that you’ve been busy - that relationships aren’t always easy.
Michael, don’t be capricious, satisfy my sordid misses.
You simply have to wave to me - I’m out here in the bushes.

Some people are cynical about college -  it’s rigid, they say - why is it even needed?

Don’t be confused about college - it’s not a place for creativity. You can’t use an essay to wander restlessly through your imagination - you’ll fail - and fail quickly. Universities are places for conscientious minds.

Conscientiousness - the desire to do the needed well and thoroughly - is the best predictor of success in college, in graduate school, in law, in management and anyplace that has structure and rules.

In science, most progress is incremental. Oh sure, there’s the occasional Einstein who changes everything, but that’s rare. The reason science is so powerful is that it allows regular, educated people to advance knowledge one microstep at a time. Imagine a hundred thousand people microstepping and exchanging knowledge and wow, now we’re zooming.

You don’t want a surgeon in their well lit operating theater to have an inspiration and try something new on you. You want them to apply the state-of-the-art procedure diligently and carefully.

Entrepreneurs and artists don’t always do well in college. Those careers require constant “out of the box” thinking. When a person starts a company, there are no rules, it’s necessary for the entrepreneur to make things work on the fly. Artists are almost required to break or create new rules. Conscientiousness certainly plays a part in those fields but it’s not the main predictor of success.

Creativity is necessary - every company needs a small group of people generating new ideas but it’s a high risk, high reward game. Few new ideas pan out - the odds that your idea will be unique, practical, affordable and reach the marketplace at exactly the right time to be successful are astronomically low.

Someone who wants to - who feels they have to be creative - is almost cursed. Yes, it’s ironic that I’m publishing this on a poetry site - but in most cases creative people fail - it’s much better for the average someone to be practical. Practical people are generally more successful in life although the rare creative can be extremely successful (Musk, Jobs, Gates).

Colleges teach how our world works - a simulacrum of what is currently known - in hopes that the student will be able, one day, to ask the next question - the one that will push their particular science ahead that one microstep and move us all into the bright future.

It’s a beautiful day, like a hole in perpetual winter. We rode bikes around campus - everyone was out. When it’s cold I just go place to place but today reminded me that outdoors can be fun. Of course, it’s supposed to snow tomorrow night - just a few snow atoms, I think.

Lisa was laying on her back in the grass reading. She rolled over and smoothed the book flat. In the fleeting, golden moment between dusk and evening, the edges of Lisa’s gold hair looked almost green. I’m right there next to her - we’re sharing a towel-like blanket.

She takes up a pen and writes something in the margins - leaving stray thoughts like breadcrumbs. Then trades the pen for a highlighter and colors several phrases. We’re poking around the edges of our chemistry midterm. Her face has tightened in concentration. I could imagine her wearing a similar expression while taking the test.

Later, we’ll combine our little scribbles (her handwriting is awful) and highlights, class notes and charts into something collaborative and shareable. She passes me a note, like a riddle, which I read and hand back, annoyed. “That question doesn’t interest me.” I say nonchalantly.
“You mean you don’t know the answer,” she guesses correctly.
“Not yet.” I admit.

Rumor has it that Putin will attempt to salvage his reputation by saying his ill-fated invasion of Ukraine was an attempt to stop the new season of “The Kardashians.” While we can ALL embrace THAT goal, I think it’s just an excuse (politics).

I love classes - the ideas that we’re exposed to, like Agential Identities or Nominative Determinism Hypothesis - ideas, some ½ stupid, some profound but things I wouldn’t have thought of in 200 years. I constantly find myself thinking “Who THOUGHT of this?”

All my #2 pencils are chewed and the erasers are gone.
Half the pages of my books have been folded.

Sections are highlighted and notes are scribbled  
all over the place!  shaking head

The page margins are jammed with doodles,  
of flowers, cats, stars, hearts and names.

flipping pages to early in the year

September doodles are all John, john, JOHN.

Who’s John? thinking back
Oh, yeah. smiling  OH YEAH.

It’s good to review the book before midterms.

The milk coffee skies of Paris in May,
make the Seine river look insanely gray.

At sunrise it’s quiet -
the traffic’s mostly bikes
our digs are luxurious and private
my school stress is waning - it’s nice

I want to get up sigh
I don’t want to get up,
We’ll vote on it later -
I think it’s a tossup.

What will today bring?
More thunderstorms and kisses?
grin I hope so.

I pull the covers up.
Peter stretches and asks,
“what are you doing?”

I chuckle, and say,
“Come and find me,”
when he does,
Paris is fun in May
.
.
songs for this:
How Deep is your love - Live at the MGM Grand by Bee Gees
Houdini by Dua Lipa
Disco Boots by Gavin Turik
Not My Fault by Reneé Rapp & Megan Thee Stallion