Without Further Adieu

And another thing...

I was so pissed about health insurance that I had to come back and start this shit all over again.

Here's a poem about peas.

The Devil's Truck Garden
I pretend I'm idle to allow my hands
To play among the vines. By the time
You're off to the desert in August,
I'll be putting in the cold-weather
Greens. With the seasons askew,
Every damn plant is bolting and bitter
Too soon for my taste. I seem to be the only one
Who eats the peas. I'll pull them up.
Three people and a hill of beans:
An unbalanced equation. Two plane
Routes wrap the map without enough play
To meet neatly on the other side.
I'll plant seeds in the damp soil;
You, fire on the dusty rock.
You pretend I'm in Antarctica;
I'll pretend I'm not in hell.

Photo: Bogart rides his bike to work. Man up.