  I trail your feathered leavings. I see around the ground-level, cracked half-panes where you've been tramping. A bitty crescent told off by a length of slit hose, where the leaves molder, and what you leave molders. A sparkplug. Tell me, said Zorba, do he & he make you feel for your temperature? Do he & he have a muscle big in the arm from the aiming? Do he & he pay for it when you dine at the surgeon's? And I say. Every time. Here is my wallet, my truncated prescription. Purse your lips. A regatta of providers ensues. 
