Summer Shave.

Last night, at the ballgame, sitting in front of me: a kid, 21 or 22 years old, with a leatherbound copy of collected Shelley. He was reading from Hellas.

This morning, early: dropped the dog off to get her summer shave, and even though we'd run the fan all night, and even though I'd slept reasonably well, and reasonably cool(ly?), standing there in the Dog Days parking lot, seven-thirty sun working its way over the asphalt, I could tell it was indeed time for all of us to think about getting our summer shaves.

Hey, May. Just in time for June.