The stamp on the creased letter reads: No forwarding address.

Three cypress trees whose roots grew networks in cracked sewer pipes (the landlady sent two men to chop them up).

Two maple keys dangling in an old spiderweb: remnants of a winged creature’s wings.

Assorted metalware (25,000 light bulbs, 6,000 vinyl records, 2 gold rings) in an 80-year-old Serbian stuntman’s stomach. And the bike pedal that did him in.

The world’s largest pig hairball and two deformed calves, sitting in glass cases in an abbey.

Last year we read of cheese and ice cream being made from human milk; the other day: an article on cat owners knitting cardigans from spun, shed fur.

That faint smell of wet dog? Probably mildew from the water reservoir in the steam iron you use to take wrinkles out of traveling robes.

Truthfully, I’d rather wash than iron: soap and water, dirt wrung through the cord. The iron’s false promise: uncreasing some small part of life. Singed polyester therefore a kind of revenge.


In response to Morning Porch and small stone (93).

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