Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
It's unusual for me to have a lizard in the house two weeks in a row. It must be the weather. Like all natives of Florida, they can't deal with temperatures in the thirties.
This week's lizard was in the laundry room and was light brown rather than bright green as was the lizard of the previous week. He looked a bit like this, but I can't find a photo with his exact color:
I didn't have anything handy for stabbing purposes, so I stomped on him. He ran behind the washing machine. I haven't seen him again, not have I seen his bright green friend.
Letter to local lizards:
You do not belong in my house, per our previous agreement. Get lost. I shall continue my attempts to stab and stomp you to death. I know you eat insects. That's great, but you belong outside. Go join your friends. Even if I don't kill you, you will die inside my house. Then you will be lizard dust, sucked up by Mrs. Roomba.
The Queen of Grammar
That is all. Oh! I just remembered that some of you seemed concerned about yesterday's poem. Please do not confuse the speaker, a.k.a. the poetic persona, with the poet. The poem is a poem. Willy Dunne Wooters has not been banished. If the Wooters man were gone, I would not have a place to rest my head because of course my head belongs on his chest with my left leg over his left leg and my left hand on his tummy. NOW, that is all.
Infinities of love,