Morning.

First, a poem,

What My Father Told the Ghost
Once, at a seance, you started yelling
at your own dead father. I don't know

about what. The man died gardening:
a heart attack over a bed of flowers.

A smoker, a doctor, ten years too old
to be a father. But you're never too old

to be an asshole. You garden too.( Read more... )

Next: I harvested three black krim tomatoes yesterday. One I gave away to a co-worker. Two I took to CrazyChris' to make BLTs. Crazychris and I had two BLTS each and, only about two-thirds of the tomato eaten, sought reinforcements. Meg had a sandwich. Angus had a sandwich. People ate assorted tomato bits.

Then the first tomato was finished being eaten. I hope he enjoys the second. ;) I rock. Eating with Chris rocks, too. There will be is picture of the banquet table. Top left is about one-third of the tomato left. There's also freshly-made hummous, as you see.



Finally: I am tired.