I wasn't planning on eating more cheese today
or sipping a martini, or coming into the house
before the weed-eating was completely done.
The dark gray cloud bank rolled over the hill from St. Louis
with its sticky little twigs of electricity drilling
its lightning-quick energy into the dirt. The
skin on my neck twitched and I fell to the ground
since I've always heard that's what you do when
lightning crackles somewhere close. I escaped
unscathed, retreated into the house.
Eve presented me a small plate
of smoked gouda, five rice crackers, and three giant martini
olives that I can never stop popping into my mouth.
"Where's the martini?" I asked. "You'd better make
it yourself. I usually spill the vermouth and make
a mess all over the floor."
"And by the way, you know I like 'em dirty,
with vodka, not gin, and as many olives as you get poked
with the stick."
We sit in the den beside the deck and watch
the first raindrops hit the parched wooden boards.
I hear sizzling as the cats dance like li'l
ballerinas on speed, pawing at the glass door
to come in. "Can you believe Annie Hall's
42 years old?" you say. "We're getting old,"
I respond, "but so is Woodie Allen and Diane
The den fills up with cool air as a young
Maryl Streep with her long blond hair cascading
over her left shoulder chastises Woodie Allen
for spying on her as she was falling in love.
"You want another martini?" she asks.
"Only if I don't have to make it," I say.
"And I could care less about the mess
you'll make on the floor. It's just as dirty
down there, so bottom's up."