Saturday commute cxxvi: Out of the fire

Friends possess great latitude

with me, to inquire in the nos-

iest way, provided they accept

the risk of a querying absorp-

tion of their question. So, it

wasn't so unusual, when a bril-

liant, flaring gem of my exper-

ience lately asked if I'd ever

imagined sharing the remainder

of my life with someone whom I

knew.

I was reminded of the boy on a

road in the Pyrénées, not an e-

vent waiting to happen, but an

event reflecting, before one's

eyes. And the copper, hammered

pan approached on the hypothet-

ical, of willingness to commit

to eliciting an omelet.

Rodrigo Penaforte

Dieter Krehbiel, photo

ca 2015

The old shirts

 I put one on, the

 other day, a pin-

 point cotton wov-

 en in Glasgow and

 fashioned by tail-

 ors in New Jersey,

 about this long a-

 go. Of warm-weath-

 er weight, it im-

 parted a sense of

 luxury to the arm

 from decades admir-

 ably withstood, of

 laundries and more

 genial wearing in.

 It's what I'd been

 rusticated to the

 same place for. I

 did not pursue the

 comparison.

 This is for myself.

We go home now

   Now this. To save their
   soul they say they need
   Ted Cruz.