Old JimBeneath a plaid shirtAnd above a John Deer--below is the grassAnd he's cutting it clearThe summer's returnedAnd with it Old JimTo blow down the grassesAnd bend them to himHe's lowered the mowerAnd set it in gearBefore him, the new growth'sA tremble in fear"There's walkers need knowingWhere each foot should go,"He calls to the young grass,As if it should knowAnd while they awaitThe sharp blade turning round,They dream of a landWith an untrodden groundWith no cows to munch,And no clippers to trim,And no riding mowerSat on by Old JimBut Jimmy, he seesWith a twinkle in eyeThat each leaf lives onand never should dieAs sure as the winterThaws out to the muck,The grass will grow green--and perhaps with some luckOld Jimmy will comeOn his mower again,and beat back the weedsmuch to their own chagrinHe'll be up on his seatWith his blade spinning trueCalling, "Look out down the way,I'm a heading right for ya!"
The RoomThe RoomINT. THE ROOM - MORNINGCamera sits above the floor at ceiling level and pivots over to show a young man, MICHAEL (24), lying on the ground with a blanket over his body. He stirs. The walls of the room match the floor in a drab grey, and the light source is amorphous and indirect, so that a window is not apparent, nor an overhead light. A door is located on the wall furthest from Michael, from which a bright light seeps in from the space around it in the frame. A faint stain is present on the wall between the two corners the camera pivots between. A PHONE RINGS from underneath the blanket. A small blue light flashes on and off from underneath the blanket, and there's a beat before Michael rolls over and pulls the cell phone out to his ear.MICHAELHello?A woman's voice responds, muted as through a phone.WOMAN'S VOICEHi. My name's LauraLaura Jains. I spoke to you about the r
Florida :draft 3:The surface of our table is bare except for a glass water jug that is fluted near the top. The pinched glass holds a thin, round slice of lemon in place below the surface of the water. My friend and I are seated at the Fresh on Spadina, below Queen St. in Toronto. The restaurant is busy, and patrons look out at the smoke that is rising from the west. A quiet layer of music keeps a persistent, steady noise through the intermittent lulls in the different conversations that surround us.We have been friends for a long time, and I've been staying on his couch while I visit. I've missed a lot of his recent life; he's been with a girl, but she has moved on. He is leaving for Florida later in the day, where his family is already vacationing. They have a house rented somewhere down there. He has to collect his things and make ready to leave; I have to find somewhere else to stay until I leave again. We sit quietly with menus and look them over.The silence at our table foils the chatter and li