and you say and think and think and say and round and round it goes, some warts all around the neck and wrists and above the left hip, like the time she bumped her head against the bureau and blamed you for it although you were miles away on a trip to antigua where the children dance around you to and fro darting their hands into every pocket and what a cruel dog it must have been on that day as you kicked it when no one was looking except for the old man who smiled approvingly and his wife bespeckled and worried because even with them damn things on she still couldn’t see a thing.