Tonight, both of the PBS channels I get have decreed that no Englishmen shall die. This is the second week without a Mystery show. I am impatient for slaughter. The one advantage is that I am not pressed for time. I could take the nap that I sorely miss on shopping days. In fact I almost took one on the back porch while sitting in a chair after returning from the store. The enervating afternoon heat engulfed me and a slight, sultry breeze made the leaves whisper of sleep. My mind wandered, I dozed, and then almost fell out of the chair. If I'd been in the chaise lounge I'd probably still be out there, comatose.
But a late lunch and no Mystery to look forward to and the fact that this is not a watering day means I could go nap on the couch right now, and not even have to worry about missing dinner. It's very tempting, though I'd probably wake up after dark not knowing what day it was, and that's always unpleasantly disorienting. I think I'll do it anyway. I feel a need for dreams, remembered or forgotten.
by Maxine Kumin
And suppose the darlings get to Mantua, suppose they cheat the crypt, what next? Begin with him, unshaven. Though not, I grant you, a displeasing cockerel, there's egg yolk on his chin. His seedy robe's aflap, he's got the rheum. Poor dear, the cooking lard has smoked her eye. Another Montague is in the womb although the first babe's bottom's not yet dry. She scrolls a weekly letter to her Nurse who dares to send a smock through Balthasar, and once a month, his father posts a purse. News from Verona? Always news of war. Such sour years it takes to right this wrong! The fifth act runs unconscionably long.