The Great Gatsby, Revisited as Audiobook























At the kitchen counter

chopping vegetables

doing dishes

and looking out at the old avocado farm

across the canyon

and

in the car

driving up and down

Pacific Coast Highway

to appointments

school

and the store

I revisited

the careless people

the truthful

the hopeful

and the jaded

the glittering parties

the end of summer

and the rain

the green light at the end of the dock

and

boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The Mom Nose

Sometimes I wish I didn't have such a "mom nose." You would think that years of exposure to the noxious fumes that children produce would result in a dulling of the senses; a higher tolerance, so to speak. But no. I'm not saying that I'm a master of wine or anything, but I can smell a poopy diaper, slightly mildewed swim trunks, or underwear that's been worn three days in a row from a mile away. Sometimes this superpower is kind of a burden, to be honest. Like today.


Why does my toothbrush
suddenly taste like suntan lotion?
And why does the Kleenex box
smell like kettle corn?
Why this bionic sense of taste and smell?
I'm beginning to feel like a dog.