I’m unpotable water and potato salad left too long in the sun. I cause diarrhea. So stay away until I’m done writing.
 Three glasses of water when I wake. Two slices of pizza. A pile of crisp snow peas.
A window. A page. A pen. Rain.  A lake. A dock. Sky. Not my son’s face.
The image I want on my computer screen must be something I admire from afar. Something I cannot touch or think I can change.  So at the symphony, I daydream and wonder… When you retire, will you clean your clarinet or let your saliva crust at the lip of each silver key?
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