A small shop in Monte Carlo has a beautiful piece of pottery displayed in the window. I see it during one of our afternoon jaunts. There’s a soup tureen with a turtle on top to lift the lid. Little turtle-shaped individual soup bowls.

“I’ve never seen anything like it," I tell him.

I can picture it on my kitchen counter. And when it’s cold in the winter I can make mock- turtle soup. Serve it up in the little bowls. I tell him all this. “Let’s go in and look at the tureen," I say.

The poet sat in front of the desk at the employment agency. He watched the man behind it shuffle through papers. Noticed on his tie there was a legion of golfers poised to swing.
"On your information form you list 'Poet'," the man said.
"Yes. I was thinking I might find something related, part time. Say, sweeping zeros into freshly dug graves."
The man paged through a thick binder.
"You any good at filing?"
"I could do impressions; stand up", the poet said. He held his hands chest high, to where they looked like they grew out of his armpits.
"What's this?" he said.
The man looked up, shrugged.
"A T-Rex pantomiming a warm embrace," the poet said.