Mrs. Teabody Greets the Day

The following poems were written during the final year of my father's life. How I wish you all could have met him. I love and miss you, Dad! A Trio of Poems for my Father 1 Look how small I am. Soon I will fit in a suitcase Look at my  alabaster skin Soon I will be transparent Look at my wispy white hair Soon my pate will gleam Look at my ruined skin My poorly-drawn blood blotches Look at my .  .  . Hands like scurrying rabbits  . . . Like chasing rodents . . .  Like vices What do hands do? What in God’s name do hands that always did . . . do? When there is nothing to do but:  - grab at the air for another part that’s come undone - grab the rail and dream of ships and hay wagon hitches and motorcycles and levers  - grab the knees and dream of plunging into a summer stream  -- the shock of cold water heart-stopping - grab invisible food and dream of hotdogs with mustard and onions - grab offered hands and dream  of greeting old friends, a revered uncle,

Good Morning, Gentle Reader on this calm but overcast June morning where the scent of roses encapsulates Chez Teabody like bargain shoppers encapsulate WallyWorld on Black Friday. A heady time, indeed. Today Mrs. Teabody will swan off to the International Tea Expo in Las Vegas where she will be schooled in all things related to tea. Imagine! Four DAYS of nothing but tea education. Why Mrs. Teabody shall soon have her PhD in tea. Perhaps some venerable not to mention piratical institution such as Phoenix U. already offers such a degree? No doubt.  And while Mrs. Teabody welcomes the opportunity to learn, learn, learn, she is not much enamored of temperatures so high that one's eyeshadow is soon slithering along one's bosom, and what better scenario can one imagine with temperatures predicted to reach 112? Mon Dieu! But to the topic du'jour: Wanting a Kewpie Doll! Or more specifically wanting you, Gentle Reader, to want a kewpie doll. To want something so much you just wi