Thanks, Ray, this is just what the doctor ordered.
No, you never see me have one with olives — your father likes
olives but I can’ t stand them.
No, cocktail onions are just picked small. Turn that down, Dan.
Avocados, toothpicks. Coleus, root sprawl.
The diffident glints of a late-day sun, rays
splintered by leaves: they shake and, in their
shaking, streak the light. Transparent murk
of glasses at the glass.
Would you move just one inch over? There. The light was in my eye.