Another day of no rain . . . so far. Fresh strawberries are in season. I eat them every morning at Polly's Pancake Parlor, which is a real place, though the name makes it sound like a business establishment in Richard Scarry's Busytown, the sort run by rabbits and serving only pickles. This morning I drove around in the fog with Sam Cooke's rendition of "Find Yourself Another Fool" blasting from my inadequate stereo. Meanwhile, the boys are taking advantage of my absence to watch Quentin Tarantino movies every night.

I ought to talk about today's poem and prompt but I am so tired that I can't remember its title.