I groan. I frown. Finally, I steel myself to review the remains of last night’s post-performance party. Stomping through the apartment, dismayed at the mess, I contemplate my next move. I suppose I COULD require them all – once they are SOBER, that is – to come and clean up after themselves. Though, frankly, I don’t think there is enough BORAX in the entire state of Texas that will restore this place to what it was. Playing nursemaid to the hottest band in Austin definitely has its drawbacks.

Georg’ann

I love cinnamon TOAST, and sourdough too.
Spread with enough butter to put my AORTA at risk.
No MORAL purity to my choice.
Won’t eat the meat, yet
gladly lap the mother’s milk
not meant for me, or my kind.

Once when I was 11, we traveled to upstate NY,
a FORAY to distant relatives
who owned a dairy farm.
I was allowed to milk a brown cow
white heart shaped spot on her forehead.

We stayed several days,
visited parks and even Niagara Falls.
But my favorite days were the ones when the adults chatted over coffee
tended their normal routines,
I was left free to explore.
Clothes cleaned with BORAX hung in the breeze.
I wandered in the pastures, making my way to every child’s favorite playground,
a rock lined stream.
The sound was quintessential babbling brook.
Later, exhausted from my adventures,
I’d curl on the couch reading true crime magazines.

My mother and I never saw that family again,
though my grandparents relocated to there a few years later.
When they went, I inherited
the Good Season salad dressing shaker.
The final remnant, never another meal together.

Heather