Dr. Harmon met Dr. Coburn by the ticket-taker’s; they went sauntering. They led a merry chase—all through Febbraio Park and arbors therein—some morning-glories in purple, as constellations flown by daylight. They cackled full hard in a store-bought ruin; they compared the tools of their trade. They recited collegiate song, retained through the years: “The Ballad of Medical Davy and Medical Dick.” From where they clanked cups in a boulangerie, table spotted with milk-drops—a contrail crossed the blue span on high for half a St. Andrew’s cross. Dr. Harmon shouldered his cane; Dr. Coburn tightened his belt in a corner where he couldn’t be seen. They pinched their fingers, and pinched their lips dry—smoke came out, toddling together from the two doctors’ mouths.
-2001
