A Slow Drizzle

Well it’s Saturday morning, Bush, and I don’t have very much to say. A gray day. A slow drizzle, barely perceptible. I took the dog out for his early walk, and we came home damp. The newspapers have not yet arrived. I checked online with the New York Times. Not much there either, that I could see. I checked inside the skull to see if perhaps I had a poem in there, waiting to come out. Nothing. So here I am, sitting here with not much to say, and wondering what devilment you might be up to. If anything crops up, I might check in with you later. If not… well, have a good weekend, Bush. And my best to Laura.