So Hillie showed up at my door. 3:00 of a morning. Best time to drive here from the far west (Santa Monica). That’s what she was talking about as I answered the door in my boxers, pulled on backward half still asleep. You came to crow about discovering the joys of driving L.A. deep in the night?! I asked. No no. She settled into my half-sunken couch (I need a new one as soon as I can muster the money and effort to shop for one—hint, hint). Hillie’s hair was scrambled, long loose whisps raining off the unstuck mass of gold, blond gorgeousness. In distress Hillie achieved a goddess look. I stared. She talked. Love. What is it? Why does it hurt? My answer: I dunno. Never ask a poet to extemporize on subjects he/she would need to ponder with pen or keyboard in hand and head drilled into vocabular ranks. So I hugged her. Tears flowed. From both of us. And you can too easily guess the rest. By morning, drinking freshly french-pressed coffee, we shared a long dunno minute. Where am I going, Dad? How about a dose of paternal input?