4/10/08

soup poem.

January S
Sophia and I went for a walk in the West Village. I showed her the apartment where e.e. cummings lived for forty years, 4 Patchin Place. As we walked, I taught her how to write haikus. She already knew what they were but didn’t know the number of syllables in each line. Soon everything she said became a haiku:
I need to pee bad. Where’s a place to urinate without buying stuff? My hands are frozen. Did you hear?—frozen solid. Like hands made of ice. Soup is the best thing. Well, it’s one of the best things. Anyway it’s good.
The soup poem was written in a restaurant called Sacred Chow. There we decided that everything good begins with an s—soup, sleep, showers, sacred chow, sun, and sex—though not necessarily in that order.

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