You May Have Heard Of Me.

Each Woman Is Like An Instrument, Waiting To Be Learned, Loved, And Finely Played, To Have At Last Her Own True Music Made.

Dawn Was Coming. The Waystone Inn Lay In Silence, And It Was A Silence Of Three Parts.

My Bad Luck Got Tangled Up With My Bad Decisions, And I'm Paying For It.

I Have Heard What Poets Write About Women. They Rhyme And Rhapsodize And Lie. I Have Watched Sailors On The Shore Stare Mutely At The Slow-rolling Swell Of The Sea. I Have Watched Old Soldiers With Hearts Like Leather Grow Teary-eyed At Their King's Colors Stretched Against The Wind. Listen To Me: These Men Know Nothing Of Love. You Will Not Find It In The Words Of Poets Or The Longing Eyes Of Sailors. If You Want To Know Of Love, Look To A Trouper's Hands As He Makes His Music. A Trouper Knows.

Old Cob Tucked Away His Bowl Of Stew With The Predatory Efficency Of A Lifetime Bachelor.