She had this thing abvouth the South, a dream sort of thing, a fantasy, no, not a fantasy, just an image she had in her mind, an image of having this big smile on her face while sitting on the banks of a river in the South, a hot breeze blowing through her cotton dress, feet playing in the cool water, drinking whisky with a farming man, a man who worked the land, her face freckled by the sun.--that's how she told it while we lay in the bed of our Canadian winter. I wrote a song to her last night while wailing on the harmonica and knocking back Lakeport beers. I won't repeat it here, th words were too cruel. Regardless, in the hangover light of day, the words were forgotten, obliterated by Colombian coffee, Gatorade and cigarettes. It's July in Hamilton. 32 degress celcius with a humidex of 42 and a pollution count of 52. I selpt naked and stayed naked past noon, reading yesterday's paper and scratching a heat rash wherever it itched. It was a day without mail.