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Poem	The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup drawings on the wall above a bench of tools. Your ears are ringing with the sound of the mechanic hammering on your exhaust pipe, and as you look closer you notice that this month's is not the one pushing the lawn mower, wearing a straw hat and very short blue shorts, her shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts. Nor is it the one in the admiral's cap, bending forward, resting her hands on a wharf piling, glancing over the tiny anchors on her shoulders. No, this is March, the month of great winds, so appropriately it is the one walking her dog along a city sidewalk on a very blustery day. One hand is busy keeping her hat down on her head and the other is grasping the little dog's leash, so of course there is no hand left to push down her dress which is billowing up around her waist exposing her long stockinged legs and yes the secret apparatus of her garter belt. Needless to say, in the confusion of wind and excited dog the leash has wrapped itself around her ankles several times giving her a rather bridled and helpless appearance which is added to by the impossibly high heels she is teetering on. You would like to come to her rescue, gather up the little dog in your arms, untangle the leash, lead her to safety, and receive her bottomless gratitude, but the mechanic is calling you over to look at something under your car. It seems that he has run into a problem and the job is going to cost more than he had said and take much longer than he had thought. Well, it can't be helped, you hear yourself say as you return to your place by the workbench, knowing that as soon as the hammering resumes you will slowly lift the bottom of the calendar just enough to reveal a glimpse of what the future holds in store: ah, the red polka dot umbrella of April and her upturned palm extended coyly into the rain.
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