Southern California:
I rode in the wild animal cage and I roared. With two fingers, I nudged a jellyfish’s slick rubber being. Touch the top of his head, gooey like a baby’s soft spot. Not the tentacles.
San Antonio: Two working faced men playing Mexican marimba, many empty flamingo-long daiquiri cups, and two brown boys with matching braids and ironed, collared shirts.
Washington, DC:
I wore a red belt and entered my senators’ offices with aplomb. I did not see Toby or Josh, but I did sober up a celebrating Jayhawk with five glasses of water and quizzed him on his route home before I left him.
Tulsa:
Vines of European carvings overhead, the Al Capone dark of the collapsed tunel, in the belly of the rickety roadside sculpture, and telling the Jonah story over good wine and fried okra.
Macomb:
Sitting on the attic steps with a five-year-old, his stack of superhero books next to us, I opened the “Sesame Street” volume with the picture I recognized, Bert and some Muppet friends flying down a hill in a trash can they’d lashed to a roller skate.
Landing 