Lying on a sarape in a park above Broadway, bare feet play in soft green grass under the shade of a tree. A few billowy white clouds above. We've got birds and breeze but no hint of the sound of traffic. He’s in a baseball cap and his t-shirt from the night before, lying on his stomach next to me, stumbling through a couple Shakespeare sonnets with the most marvelous accent. Stops mid-verse, grinning, asks what the hell that word means.
Two totally displaced prepubescents swordfight with sticks 20 paces away and fake death badly. Crappiest pseudo Mercutio and Tybalt, like, ever. I am thumbing through the volume looking for R&J. He tells me it's towards the back.
I like Sunday.
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Leave it at the beep.