Distant Dances.02

Dances of Apocalypse 2


one more morning

is all I need

to fill my sails

to sooth my lost feelings

with Neptune sensations 

ripped from the quaking mound

of the Virgin’s first child

Hornpipe because this is a short piece with sea references & Biblical allusions. Jesus filled the sail of the fishermen’s boat when needed to sooth their fears. Was I wondering what would rip me feeling from me? Melodrama mistaken for depth:-)


Japanese pagoda

growing in Rome 

or was it Venice?

all jade fragile

amid marble columns

awaked by murky waters

steaming morning haze

when we roll off our pallets,

to silky cool

onto the the polished mosaic floor;

looking to the chiming clock,

listening to the pigeons fly.

open for daylight

onto freshly fallen snow

mingling white with the Pines,

or were they Spruce?

high in Smokey Ridge

deep in Twin Rock Valley

Cakewalk – not sure why this one ended up with this title. A piece about displacements, paradoxical dreamlike images that travel from Japan to Rome & end up in Twin Rock Valley – which is in Cape Breton. I had friends, draft-dodgers, who had bought a farm in the hippy get-back-to-the-land phase. The waking up to fresh snow is a real moment  Maybe the title refers to the fact that back-to-the-land was no Cakewalk for them.


fame and fortune are not goals

merely drugs to opiate the system

to deaden the feelings of futility

of creating in the face of destruction


let the pygmies of Paris eat me alive;

make them scourge the meat off my bones;

let the sniper with his random pulse

find me accidentally in his sights;

put the final, fleeting, flash blow

into someone else’s hands,

take the responsibility from me,

I handle these things so badly,

even when I remember what to do.


the moment of truth (never now)

comes slow, to disturb the calm

to strengthen the desperate feeling

that destruction charges with energy.

Minuet – polite little dance – much like the dance of expectations, no wait, expectations are rarely polite. I grew up in the shadow of nuclear destruction, war in Vietnam, war protests & racial strife in the USA. Kennedy shot by a sniper. The randomness of violence was pretty far removed from me in Cape Breton but it was felt. Why create when we can annihilate the world in a moment?


impatience is the problem;

the waiting should be over

yet it persists in hiding,

making me lust in secret wanting;

words merely fall,

not for insight

but only to pass the time

before the curtain finally goes up.

Quadrille – this word makes me think of cotillions for some reason. The piece, as I see it now, is wanting to be an adult, ‘lust in secret’ is the itch to be out & making conversation to hide that fact. Like waiting for the plane to land – you want the flight to over.

The Last Waltz

bed-ridden, guilty-disappearer

alludes carpets backwards

into ember sparkling through cozy air,

crackling crystal cut perspectives

reflections held too closely eye-ward

making a pyramid of ink blotches

stretch out

turn in

till there is no border to be fought

only a multiplicity of images to sort.


Nov. ‘73

The Last Waltz – the final piece in this sequence is both an invitation to look back before you go on then a warning that there’ll be even denser imagery to deal with in what follows. In looking at these I see a foreshadowing of of images to come with references to Africa, Japan, Egypt, Canadiana, water, music. When I first wrote these I was not conscious of these patterns. I also see various influences of pop lyrics, as opposed to ‘serious’ literary ones. 

I do have a limited number of the original Distant Music chapbook for sale for $25.00 each (includes surface mail postage). Send via the paypal above along with where to send it.


Distant Dance.01

#Toronto #chapbook #Fiddlehead #CapeBreton #WordPress #DistantMusic #photography #UNB #archives #angst #NovaScotia #lgbtq #closeted #review #amwriting #spokenword #inspiration #poetry #Ontario

Dances of Apocalypse

Capypso Calypso

water running freely

I am your river bed,

set sail upon my body;

let me rain upon you

while a day dry spot remains.


if there is mystery

hire a detective

perhaps he can follow

deep into the forests

twisting, turning, rising

up mountain, down valley

finding oceans between.


I am blind alley lost

if that’s how you find me,

tossing off whatever lines

crawling baited with words;

let me pull you to land,

let my star-hook catch you

as your revelations

become Apocalypse

for this poor fisherman.


Square Set

gorilla sunshine

Sunday promenade

my African lady

prayful ravager

graces without virtue

the hungry textures

of her orchid flesh


freeze the scene 

mute clean forever

mood maiden’s gestation

crying zebra infant

born upon straw

as aphrodesiac


crossword writer

heralds by cannon

newly confused issues

of fragments strewn

humble jumble

sequential sparkling

against the rhythm

beating in suspicion

that I am fear


lackadasical stairs

leading expertly

to doorless walls;

how do I get in?

why do I want out

of walls with no doors?

stairs with no wells?

illnesses with no cures


Fox Trot

the meaning 

of spirals

escapes me

just now,

eyes closed


fireside circles


burn the expression clean

turn the precious key

in my head or somewhere

found huddling between

taking myself back in


giving myself all out


walking tall

and straight

isn’t really



in the end

you’re lucky

to walk

at all



entertain only collapsible thoughts

before the unattainable is revealed

before you cannot see beyond frustration;

marginal mirrors, crafty devices,

reflect only the background so clearly;

you, the foreground, become so indistinct

that all I can see are your misted eyes

peering out from the vivid evergreens

showing me the path beyond the seasons:

destroy the constant bordering distance

so the final sun rises and sets on me

being everything without horizon.


turkey-face readies for waltzes in the straw

while I search out her magnetic north poles,

spread-legged in the marble arch of change

baring my timid flesh to trumpet scorn

sugary jazz swayed up through the ceiling

into a vision of sexual vagrants

trotting, hastily candid, all night, naked

except for clothing their apple-bruised eyes.


Hong Kong recognition for the humbler

peace by piece constructing a gilded loom

foaming with potentially sleepy songs

to the intently triangular sobs

of mystics clinging to the morning post;

I’m another one, I know all to well,

who can barely repeat, but fabricates

so much that this ash-peace in purity

falls short when autumn tress blaze brightly

without any hints of skin searing heat

rolling huge Douglas-pine-legged day-dreams

across an ultra-submarine-filled notion.

The books starts with a suite of short poems each named after a dance style. One reviewer remarked on the subtle way each reflects its title. But that reflection was coincidental & the titles came after the pieces had been written at various time & without attempt to make them relate to one another or to dance either. The title Calypso was suggested by the sea & water imagery in the piece. Square Set & Fox Trot were suggested by the short lines & clearly Tarantellas by the wordy lines. 

I’ve left the typos in this first piece & marked them but have removed, corrected them without indication where they showed up in the other poems. I was tempted to include them in brackets but that disrupted the flow too much. Maybe I’ll do an addendum for the typos only.

Calypso open the book with an invitation to set sail into this world of my imagery, warning about blind alleys that can be dead ends or escape routes to other mazes. Calypso lured men into her caves. The readers understandings can be so different from the writer’s intent that the writer’s intent is humbled. 

Square Set is full of alliteration, surreal imagery, with a slightly sexual undertow. The influence of Dylan Thomas is so clear to me with phrases like ‘gorilla sunshine’ ‘orchid flesh’ – warm moist images that jump into ‘freeze’ – a humble jumble of words & sensations that don’t really lead to a way to get in & ends up boxing itself shut.

Fox Trot is a dance where the couples moves in small circles, the lines in the piece are short & the in the end it wraps around itself 🙂 I sense that I was looking for a way to unlock the future, to open myself up & possibly open the closet I was trapped in. 

Tarantellas has lines that sprawl, with images about searching mirrors for clarity, looking for direction, a path – an echo of uncertain that runs through the the previous pieces. I find traces of poets I hadn’t even read i.e. Ginsburg in ‘sugary jazz swayed.’ I was a Bob Dylan fan & Ginsburg was a clear influence on him with thusly influenced me. There’s also a nod to Canadiana with Douglas pine & barn dance straw. 

I do have a limited number of the original Distant Music chapbook for sale for $25.00 each (includes surface mail postage). Send via the paypal above along with where to send it.

Summer 2020

My TOpoet.ca following blog is at 360! The June WP map show my hits have come from countries around the world. Canada & US top the list with India & Bangladesh near the top. Monaco in the top 10 is a surprise. My Tumblr is at 280. Twitter is at 226 followers

You’ll be seeing some summer changes in the blog starting this week. Wednesday & Thursday will be looking at my Fiddlehead chapbook: Distant Music. In May I input the text & in June I started exploring those old pieces. Not that I remember what I was thinking at the time but I do recall information – what I was reading, where I was etc. 

To give me a break may stop the Saturday covid posts. Things haven’t change much on that front but I will slot covid updates on Mondays to alternate with the Artist’s Way posts. People have been enjoying my posts & pictures of things in my house so they’ll continue on Mondays as well. Coming to the end of the first section of Picture Perfect. It took three Nano’s in a row to do it so by section I mean the first November. In editing I found several places that needed more writing to account for later events. My nano word count included non-plot elements it is still mounting up to a decent count. 40,000 so farI’ve also loved creating the graphic for each week.

Fridays will continue the crawl through my music collection. It is large enough to take me into to the next decade. It has been good to look at what I have, what I like & what I’ll be letting go of. My need to be a music archive has left me 🙂 Boring is boring regardless of its historic importance. Purge is the word.

Speaking of purging – my covid cleaning frenzy though some of the major hoards have reduced them considerably. I still have the basement to contend with which will be nice with the summer heat already on us. The basement is cool & full of my partner’s old school files for starters. Plus a box or two of magazines I’ve had for too long. eBay here I come.

I do have a limited number of the original Distant Music chapbook for sale for $25.00 each (includes surface mail postage). Send via the paypal above along with where to send it.


Distant Near

Distant Music was/is a chapbook that resulted from summer workshops I took at University of New Brunswick in the mid 70’s. They were live-in residency, five-day intensives under the careful eyes of Fred Cogswell. Poet-in-residence was Alden Nowlan. M. Travis Lane, John Metcalf & Susan Musgrave were a couple of the workshop leaders I whose names I remember.I was encouraged to go by Malcolm Ross, then head of English Lit department at Dalhousie University. 

My memory of the actual classes is gone. As are the names of my fellow writers. I do remember getting drunk on Lonesome Charlie (if there’s a wine named for poets that has to be it). I do remember the Salvador Dali’s Santiago El Grande, at Fredericton’s Beaverbrook Art Gallery.

I’m not sure when I was asked to submit a manuscript for possible publication by Fiddlehead Press but I was amazed when it happened. I spent a couple of months selecting possible pieces, putting them in some sort of order. I’m not sure the sequence published was mine or Cogswell’s. I wanted long & short pieces to alternate. I was into long pieces with numbered sections – sometimes those sections also had titles. Titles were as important as the poem itself.

I did a photo shoot with my apartment mate at the time. I still have a raft of the shots from that shoot. I was keen on the one of me up a tree – poet up a tree – but when I saw it print I realized the lighting was not all that good. I designed the cover. Sadly, I no longer have my original drawing.

I rented an electric typewriter to make the final drafts of the pieces & sent them off. Some months later I was given the publication date, a few weeks before that date I got my first copies of the book. I had a big launch set in Sydney, & there was also one in Halifax. I was totally stunned & dismayed to find that the book was littered with typos, starting with the very first piece. I did a by-hand correction of the copies that I had on hand. I sent an angry letter to Fiddlehead & a got a reply shaming me for being so ungrateful. Fiddlehead added an errata sheet to the inside cover of the copies they had. It covered about half the typos.

Hopefully I caught most of them & didn’t add new ones when input the book to take a closer look at it for July & August starting Wednesday.

Distant Shadow

where is the mountain pass?

I need you

but the mountain

is in my way

if I cross

I can never return

for I am the mountain

while my need for you

is the mountain pass

I do have a limited number of the original Distant Music chapbook for sale for $25.00 each (includes surface mail postage). Send via the paypal above along with where to send it.


Rainbow Pride EastEnd Toronto

More rainbow flags from around east end Toronto.

tree proud
bases covered
patriotic queers
more tree pride
porch proud
growing into pride
let it wave
pride is essential

I do have a limited number of the original Distant Music chapbook for sale for $25.00 each (includes surface mail postage). Send via the paypal above along with where to send it.


A Not Bored Covid Diary

Many people I follow or am in contact with have been  bored into stressing about having nothing to do in their social isolation. These are the sort who post lists of Ten Stop-Motion Films that have changed their lives. One recently blogged a list of ‘last times’ they did certain things like eat in a restaurant, call a barista a stupid fucking idiot – those things we all miss so much.

To rub salt in that wound I haven’t had time to be bored 🙂 Blogging, editing, yard work, house cleaning, purging & zooming around have kept me busy. Covid has saved me money – do I really want to line up for a cup of watery coffee? Are those bonus optimum points for bagels worth the effort of gloves & masks? 

I found some who took social isolation too far by not leaving their homes, apartments for weeks on end. I told one ‘friend’ I go for walks nearly every morning  & they were shocked. They didn’t see the difference between locked down & locked in. Though having a house with two floors & a reasonable sized front & back yard does give me more space for social isolation. I don’t have the experience of being cooped up in a bachelorette for days on end.

It has been inevitable, but sad, to see many businesses along the Danforth closing down with ‘for lease’ signs in their windows. Even with government assistance most didn’t have deep enough pockets to deal with a lockdown this long. Some that are reopening, or who have reopened, have limited hours/days they are open. 

The Danforth itself is about to under go a ‘transformation’ from Broadview to Dawes Road that is to see a reduction in car lanes, an increase in patio space & bike lanes. I hope the bike lanes are wide enough to keep cyclists off the sidewalks where we pedestrians are such a nuisance to them. There’ll also be prettification to encourage people out of their homes & spend spend spend. There’s nothing like the smell of spilt wine & vomit from the night before on a hot summer morning.


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rainbow flags all east end Toronto


In my modest Madonna collection I have, as mp3: Like A Virgin, The Immaculate Collection, Music & as a stand-alone Confessions From The Dance Floor. So it is clear I’m not a fan – fans have everything, fanatics have everything plus the remixes, the outtakes, the concerts, the artfully torn t-shirt & the aluminum Sex.

Is she musically creative? Does it matter when you have such great collaborators, producers, costume designers, stylists & video directors? She admits she is a product, package & a boss lady. To me she was more a provocateur than a visionary. Like Mae West she used sexuality to establish her self, unlike Mae Madonna didn’t rely on a single persona to keep her career moving.

I love some of her songs, hate some of them – Vogue was one I hated & would leave a club (when I went to clubs) when it was played – I just knew we would get the 45 minute remix. Same with Papa Don’t Preach. Some I couldn’t resist: Lucky Star, Like A Prayer.

She sampled, borrowed, adopted, adapted freely from most pop genres with varying degrees of success. Her electronica didn’t work for but her retro disco, Dancefloor, cd was great. The Immaculate Collection of her hits is probably enough nostalgia for anyone; Material Girl is solid pop & in its way, is a landmark album of promotion power. I did have her ‘Sex’ but lacked

the sexy spunk of Mae West. 



I heard later than two guys were arrested for the beating. Jim Donaldson and Victor Hanson. Both almost twenty, so not guys we knew at all. My father called them trouble makers and wasn’t surprised they were the ones behind this. Seems they heard Mr. Razov had money hidden his house and broke in to get it and when he caught them they beat the crap out of him and left him for dead in his own house. Some kids have no respect for anything these days. My dad liked to ride that one whenever he had a chance to remind me to watch my step and show proper respect.

Midterm exams were coming up, so we all sort of forget about Mr Mr. Razov. He did recover from the beating but walked with a weird shy turn of the head whenever we guys saw him in the street. He never did come back to tutor the chess club. I don’t even know what happened to the guys who beat him up. 

Fifteen years later and I’m visiting my folks for a few weeks in the summer. University out of the way and I have a decent job in the movie biz. Lightning and that sort of thing. Pays well when it pays. I’d just broken off with Kevin. He was sweet but we both saw it wasn’t working out. So a few weeks out of all that was appealing to me.

Sitting at the table in the kitchen that had changed every time I saw it – new cupboards one year, new appliances another – it was not the repository of any childhood memories. My favorite cereal bowl wa along gone. This summer they were having the pluming redone to install a dish washer and so there’d be new counters et al. 

My Mom brought me a cup of tea. “I suppose you heard Mr. Mr. Razov finally passed away. Poor man. He was never the same after that time. You remember him?”

“When did he die?”

“Just last week. Service early next week. They’re waiting till his family could be here.”

I vaguely recalled that when he deflected he’d left behind some family. 

“Wife?” I asked.

“Nope. A son. It’s all in the newspapers out in the front porch.”

I do have a limited number of the original Distant Music chapbook for sale for $25.00 each (includes surface mail postage). Send via the paypal above along with where to send it.




he was late 


the meeting had started

twenty minutes ago

he entered quietly

nodded apologetically

silently found a seat

after squeezing past

people already seated

took off his coat

put it on he back of his chair

sat & sighed apologetically


then announced

how sorry he was to be late

to disrupt the meeting

to have all eyes on him

while we waited for him

to get settled

so the meeting could resume


she fumed

he had

once again

sucked all the attention to him

he was an attention seeking sponge

always late

making a quiet entrance

acting as if he was sorry

when she knew

he was thriving on the attention

she deserved

but was unwilling 

to be as obvious as he was

in getting it

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Architectural un/Digest/able

The White House

architecturally speaking

holds no interest for me

big sprawling 

designed to impress 

not to live in

history was made there


but to me

it isn’t even a photo op

merely a symbol 

of promises unkept

of hopes betrayed

need ignored in favour of profit

not for progress

I’ve seen it from a distance

that’s close enough for me

I wrote this piece a few years ago, before the current US president turned their democracy into a media circus. I may have written it while in DC or shortly after coming from Capturing Fire that year. The city is a great mix of architectural styles with something surprising around the corner from something surprising. This would have been the week of Capturing Fire 2020 so it synchronistic this piece should come into the flow now. (Will I ever get to use my travel vouchers?)

So I have had visual contact with the building in question 🙂 I’ve watched a few TV documentaries on the history of the building, one about Secrets, another a look at Christmas Decorating. I’ve even checked out how one might tour the inside but applying to Canadian Embassy in DC is more trouble than I want to go to. I was hoping it would be like booking a guided tour of the Zoo. 

What I have learned that the interior of the house has undergone many extensive alterations that the outside is a shell, a facade, which seems mighty fitting symbol for politics anyway. I don’t say American politics but politics in general, as I don’t think the Canadian system is all that ‘transparent.’

Race riots have been happening for as long as I recall. Colonialist attitudes & actions have echoed throughout history. A few tweets around BLM that have really clarified things for me “Be grateful we want equality, not revenge.” “There are no caucasians in the Bible.” But race issues, like poverty, will be around as long as there is profit in it. The White House was built by colonizers.

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee at – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet 

Picture Perfect 25

Dan looked out the front window at Carafe as Jill got their mid-morning order ready.

“That’s fast.” He said to her. “The windows were papered over last week and now it’s a grand pre-opening.”

“Cuppa’s doesn’t waste time. Let’s see how long they last. Speedy opening often leads to speedy closing.” She smiled wry. 

“Free coffee’s today is certainly drawing them in.” Peter said.

“Fine by me,” Jill said. “I’ll give them two good weeks and that’s it. Once the good weather is here, and the Carafe’s magic patio is opened here things will change.”

“You won’t miss the students hungry for something more than higher education?”

“Not that much. I won’t have to unclog the toilets three times a day. Won’t go through as much cream, milk. I’ve never seen a bunch of people who used so much. There’s profit in coffee but it disappears if three of them go through a quart of milk.”

“Three on a cookie isn’t a pretty sight either.” Peter added.

“So Cuppa’s is welcome to them. In fact, I hope it becomes students study hall. A cup of coffee every hour between two girls who share a table, plug into their electric to keep their lap tops, phones, iPods charged while using their wifi. Oh yeah Cuppa’s is welcome to all that. Now maybe some of our regulars will start to come back.”

“That’s right I haven’t notice old Mrs. Greggs for while.” Dans said. “ I was afraid she’d passed away.”

“No.” Jill said. “She stopped coming in because those ‘students’ took over her favourite table. The last straw for her was when they moved her stuff, from her table while she was in the washroom.”

Dan’s cell rang.

“Dan, can you come over the Division?” Warszawa asked.

“I could get away in, say, an hour.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at reception. Bye.”

He only got called to the Division if there was sensitive material they didn’t want to allow off premises. Or they had new case that needed his help.

“Duty calls.” He took the tray of coffees to the Depot, explained to Sandy that Warszawa had called.

True to his word Warszawa as at the reception desk when Dan walked in.

“Here, you’ll need this.” He gave Dan lanyard with a plastic ID card that had Visitor printed on one side. “This way.”

They walked up one flight of stairs, down a hallway to Room 210, which proved to be a medium sized conference room, with windows on one side. Large table with six chairs around it. 

“Have a seat. I’ll be right back with Chief Inspector Bannerman.”

Dan took a middle chair on the far side of the table, back to the windows.

The door opened and Warszawa came in followed by a rather short man. 

“Ah, Mr. James, a pleasure to meet you.” The man came over and shook his hand. The man’s grip was strong. Dan had always thought there was height requirement for the RCMP.

“Chief Inspector David Bannerman.” Warszawa said.

“Oh, sorry forgot to introduce myself. I need a program to remind me to do that. Anyway, I asked Inspector Warszawa to bring you here. Your acumen brought something to light and I want to see where that acumen might lead us. You are familiar with some of these?” From a folder he took out a collection of travel photos. “Can you tell me which ones you’ve seen?”

The Inspector laid the photos out in four rows of six.

Dan scanned the photos out and as he did separated the ones that he recognized.

“That was fast.” Bannerman said. “Are you sure about these?”

“Oh yes. Positive.”

“Excellent memory.” Bannerman said.

“For some things.” Dan said as he looked over the other photos. “My house keys have a GPS chip.”

“You notice anything?”

“Some of them belong together. They are parts of a bigger picture. It’s like one of those slide puzzles where the section of a picture have been printed on small squares, shuffled and you have to get them in the right order.” He moved the pictures leaving some spaces. “These are the ones that form portions of the bigger picture.”

“Right.” Bannerman bushed the pictures to one side and placed three others.

Dan studied them. “These are the complete pictures.”

“Right. What can you tell us about them?”

“They are Argust Devaux panoramas. I mean small copies of the originals.”

“Argust Devaux?” Warszawa asked.

“He took a series of photographs across Canada and the States too. It’s his shots of the Rockies that he’s best known for. The camera alone weighed two hundred pounds. I could never figure out how he got it to where some of his pictures were taken.”

“So you don’t think there’s anything in the contents of these pictures?” Bannerman asked. 

“Not in a direct way. I’ve never seen these particular shots but there are thousands of them. The National Gallery might have the originals or have someone who can tell where these are from.

“I’d say this one here is BC. Sorry, but Canadian scenery is a bit generic for me.”

“I see.” Bannerman nodded to Warszawa. “Check with the National.”

Warszawa left the room.

“Now what do you already know about this case?”

“Oh it’s a case now?”

“Didn’t Warszawa fill you in at all?”

“No. I do know these were found at a crime scene. Planted there for some reason.”


Warszawa returned.

“Am I officially on this case?” Dan asked. “Or is this merely information gathering?”

“That’s still to be decided.” Warszawa said. “We found other’s similarly planted that we hadn’t realize at the time were planted.”

“Thus these cases have been connected to each other?” Dan was intrigued by the pattern that had unexpectedly emerged.

“Right.” Bannerman nodded.

“Check for connections between where the crimes happened and the places in the planted photos.” Dan’s investigative training took over.

“Hold on.” Warszawa said. “As I said you are here unofficially.”

Daniel couldn’t resist looking at the photos, shifting their order on the table into a less random sequence. Mountains. Wheat fields. Lakeside picnic.

“See something?” Bannerman asked.

“Unofficially no.” Dan looked from Bannerman to Warszawa. Uh … Anything else? You didn’t ask me down here just to look at these.”

“Nothing else.” Bannerman gathered the pictures and put them back in the folder. “Inspector Warszawa will see you out.” Bannerman opened the door for them to leave.

As they got off the elevator Dan asked. “What wa stat all about. It’s bad enough the Quintex people had me doing cold reads of photos.”

“Dan I wish I knew. Bannerman flew in from Ottawa expressly to meet with you. Clearly there is more to this … I mean it has to be something of national interest for him to be involved.”

Dan handed his pass in as he left the restricted area. Warszawa continued out to the street with him.

“You need a lift somewhere?”

“No.” Dan took out his cell phone to check the time. “I have a lot to think about.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Dan we’re more than … coworkers.”

“Okay. Sanjay and I are splitting up.”


“You asked.” Dan stopped. “Maybe I’ll take that lift after all.”

“Sure thing. The mini is outback.”

They walked to the parking in back and got inot the car.

“How does it make you feel?” Warszawa merged with the traffic.

“That’s the thing of it. I sort of feel … not relieved … not sad but such is life.”

“You two were …”

“Yes, I know the picture of the perfect couple.”

“I don’t know about perfect.” Warszawa laughed. “But a good fit.”

“We’re not going to talk about my sex life.”

“I wasn’t going there.”

“I know. Like I said I know these things happened. That it happened to me, to us, isn’t such a shock.”

“But you wish it wasn’t happening.”

“Yeah. I have enough going on as it is. What with that cold case show after me, my sister getting on to me about the business. She still thinks selling the business would be good for business. And then there’s … ” He almost told Warszawa about the s and m photos he had found.


“My house.” Dan said as they stopped.

“What about the house.”

“Nothing I was telling you we were here.”

He got out quickly.

“Thanks Robert. I appreciate your concern. Really. I don’t mean that to sound so … I do think of you as more than a coworker.”

“Okay. Call me if you have to. I know how to get a quick retraining order.”

“Restraining order?”

“I don’t think Sanjay will take splitting up easily.”


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 sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet