gross raze the boy hops the fence that separates his house from mine. he hits himself with a wooden wand. the kind you use to stir paint. he hugs my legs and starts to cry. talks to me like i'm his father when he knows i'm no_such_thing. in a restaurant he asks for french dressing on his salad. i hear him say ranch. we rock the table that's ours for now and dance with our hands to music only we can hear. he can't believe i'm going with the lemon dill vinaigrette. he says it's gross. i tell him when he's older he might not feel that way. even the bitter things seem sweeter when you know you're running out of time to taste them. 260915 what's it to you? who go blather from