Of course her apartment is filled with talking plants, fish-mouthed ashtrays, high in the gargoyles of Paris. Green eyes say she has almost reached the point of buying white poodles, picking up the next man who looks, or taking a walk in the Seine. Too long I have been a block of balsam wood to be impressed by passing slashes. When I was child balsam meant box kites and spitfires of rubber band propellers, floating through loss of power to emergency field of pond, retrieved and glued, then sent right back into the wind. The now age needs the heavy, the stabile, constant battle to keep in shape, the war continues with new weapons, thin sheets of alloys tougher than teak.
Allies are always on the way, chiseling into wait.