This is what I ate this weekend. Flown in via Federal Express from France. Are not my friends terribly high class?

Have I mentioned that I was only gone for about 24 hours? Have I mentioned the low thrum my homing device sent to all parts of my body during those 24 hours? I kept having to force myself to sit and pay attention to these lovely people and to not think and therefore not say, Home, home. I must get home.

Displacement. Phys. a. The weight or volume of a fluid displaced by a floating body. Geol. The relative movement between the two sides of a fault. Psychiat. A defense mechanism in which emotion, affect, or desires shift from the original object to a more acceptable or immediate substitute.

I went for a long walk with Basho and Bathsheba last night. We punctuated the walk with an iced coffee for her and a blackberry Italian soda for me and an ice cube for Bash. We sat down on a bench located on the high traffic sidewalk outside of the coffee shop. A boy with a Chihuahua stood a couple of feet from us and Basho, who weighs about 50 pounds and the Chihuahua who weighs about 2, got along famously. The Chihuahua tried to mount Basho and Bathsheba said "it�s like climbing a mountain" and the boy said "he likes playing out of his league."

One of the potentially best things about moving to Carr St. will be all the canine companions for Bash. I feel just terrible thinking how I�ve neglected his social life these last months.

Oh sad me. The wolf boy will be moving back to Colorado in a month or two. We�ve had good talks of late. We could have been great friends. We do not engage in small talk, which I loathe. We jump immediately into vital conversation, which I love. He says he's been trying to make the city in which we live fit him but it just doesn't. So he's leaving and he's taking that beautiful black dog with him. He says we should go to the lake at least once together before he's gone. I doubt this will happen, but I'm so so glad he said it.

And thus the work week begins.

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is--if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.

�����--Philip Levine, "What Work Is"

Here is the full text of this glorious poem.