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In the Dogbed

I sit in the dogbed; the dog, presumably, is sitting in mine. I am glad he understands quid pro quo.

Fortified wine slides from the water glass down my throat, sticky and sweet. From the Bose on the sideboard the Master of Song speaks like a prophet. He has been to the future, gone through the bright light, turned left at the next intersection. Gone home.

Snowflakes the size of matzah balls float by the window. Having landed, they soften the edges of the world: the barn, the house, the road past the house and the barn.

Immortal Leonard sings of death as though it were the Beloved, and he the one waiting for an embrace from his Shechinah. The tune is Baroque, and I imagine lady ghosts dancing in costume, pulled gently right and left by his magnetic voice. La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

I am happy. Some happiness comes when ambition goes, when there is nothing left but an old body sitting in the dogbed on a day just like this.



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