100
<p>Losin all the lows,<br />they came up,<br />went up,<br />and kicked the little,<br />torpid brownbag of Habit under the skin—<br />and then, God-willing,<br />the next crawl was a soft thirty<br />away.<br /><br />She scratched her pallid arm and brushed the licorice<br />from her temples,<br />asked him, “Why do you write those<br />happy—those pleasant, modest<br />poems,