Ponies in the kitchen

Seattle is soft and green. Maple leaves rustle near Nasai Teriyaki, shading its two outdoor tables. At work we sweltered, longing for escape.

My pants fit looser. I'm eating better. Old carapace sloughs away, shinyness peeks through.

When I was little I brought snakes home. I lost a big one in the house. I still remember snake smell. And how garter snakes, who are not supposed to bite, sometimes do.

Once the ponies got into the house while we were gone. They found the tub of potatoes under the sink, and munched them into a frothing mashy mess, covering the floor.

It's a fine thing, to find ponies aquiver in the kitchen, jowls dripping with potato foam, swivelling their ears.