No Moonshine

But there was some brandy and good company. Ronnie played the trumpet, softly, some old jazz, and it sounded good. B had soaked the loin in red wine, and, sliced across the grain, it was wonderful. Boiled new potatoes with cauliflower and broccoli, a great fresh-made apple sauce; that as a nod to clean-up, I ate off everyone's plate; an apple a day, man, knowing B, probably Yellow Delicious, he would never bend to Gala or Granny Smith, -apples- he would argue, -should be local.- We've had this 'authenic' argument so many times, what is meant. I can't even bring myself up to speed. I flop, flip, whatever, tend to view things from too many angles. Reading some Dead lyrics today, I was struck with how often they morph into something else, a metaphor for something hot and steamy, what you think you meant. I stood proud, just reading clues, and was at a loss, this degree of family, I meant to say, must mean something, the way they interact so smoothly, like a well-rehearsed bit, done before the curtain, in plain sight. I'm in awe. I never would have imagined we could, do whatever. I work for coffee and cakes, the position I find myself in, what
we do, janitors of the world unite.