The Sad Dusk: One Bean

I wore the clogs. The guy was not a Republican. Afterwards, I went over to L. B.’s to return her car, and talked to her from her bedroom doorway, while she lay in bed in her yellow, two-story house, in her pajamas, sneezing. I went to the store and bought her some chicken soup that she could make salty and hot, and lemons and ginger. She told me to take her car home with me, rather than get on my bike in my suit. So I did.

I have a few stories to tell you. Some of them I’m not sure how to say. Here’s one more Kay Ryan poem:

The Best of It

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn’t matter that
our acre’s down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we’d rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.

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