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Franklin goes to Lincolnway. Then there is Jefferson Street, Monroe, Washington, then Lafayette; a Memorial, and a Century, I think. Just in case the national history is forgotten, at least roads will have something to say of dead presidents and their conquests.

But things were cold and a little wet. Rice burners and farmers' trucks conversed side-by-side in the thin streets, their bodies reflected among the windows of the European-style cafes and bistros set-off on wide sidewalks. The air was stagnant with the smell of dead winter and exhaust fumes. Spring was trying her damndest, and on the lawn of the fortess-like court house, daffodills and tulips were making their way into the warming light.

And - there is always that discreet possibility of encountering the gaze of someone sipping in a coffee shop - and holding that gaze. And in that gaze imagining the sex these perfect strangers could have over and over, utterly changing their lives, climaxing in shrieks of glass-shattering frequencies. That is, making noise enough to break all that smokey carmely dreamy glass between the interior and exterior conspirators.

I'm uncertain, absolutely, why the pet shop doesn't stock kittens. Fish and fish and more fish; tiger striped (mewling, finny), tank-cleaning (poop-eating), and lonesome (lonesome), blue tanks with blue backgrounds.

'Ma'am, you guys have any kittens?'

'No, not here.'

The shopworker shakes her head in vigourous suspicion as I write down our exchange in my Moleskin notebook.

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