Where did the wine come from?

Think of our house as your private sanitarium.

Last night I took the train out to Lansdowne, the same train my father used to take every day. Diane Orleman and I catharted over red wine, and with a huge unabriged French-English dictionary under my arm, I caught the last train back into the city just at midnight, lightning flashing over cricket sounds at the station. I found myself in a tiny apartment on Chestnut street, and then flying my bicycle at top speed through South Philly, unlit, untrafficed straightaway streets, warm night air, the pleasure of motion and the exhilaration of danger.
I read Rumi until I fell asleep, the story of Sexual Urgency, What a Woman’s Laughter Can Do, and the Nature of True Virility.

I woke three hours later to explore a big grassy flea market, where I found an illustrated complete works of Shelley from 1890 in excellent condition, a large leather satchel, two extremely longs strings of wooden beads, Cohelo’s The Pilgrim, Gibran’s The Prophet (for my first-cousin-once-removed Samantha, age 15), and a symbology-game book called Kokology (for entertainment on the voyage southward) for a total of $20.

Now again I am listening to americana in the kitchen, my suitcases stacked neatly in the hallway, awaiting the arrival of James Brooks Robinson in the vehicle that will carry us to the land of my birth.