The murkiness of the local garage is not so densethat you cannot make out the calendar of pinupdrawings on the wall above a bench of tools.
Your ears are ringing with the sound ofthe mechanic hammering on your exhaust pipe,and as you look closer you notice that this month'sis not the one pushing the lawn mower, wearinga straw hat and very short blue shorts,her shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts.
Nor is it the one in the admiral's cap, bendingforward, resting her hands on a wharf piling,glancing over the tiny anchors on her shoulders.
No, this is March, the month of great winds,so appropriately it is the one walking her dogalong a city sidewalk on a very blustery day.
One hand is busy keeping her hat down on her headand the other is grasping the little dog's leash,so of course there is no hand left to push downher dress which is billowing up around her waistexposing her long stockinged legs and yes the secretapparatus of her garter belt.
Needless to say,in the confusion of wind and excited dogthe leash has wrapped itself around her anklesseveral times giving her a rather bridledand helpless appearance which is added toby the impossibly high heels she is teetering on.
You would like to come to her rescue,gather up the little dog in your arms,untangle the leash, lead her to safety,and receive her bottomless gratitude, butthe mechanic is calling you over to lookat something under your car.
It seems that he hasrun into a problem and the job is goingto cost more than he had said and takemuch longer than he had thought.
Well, it can't be helped, you hear yourself sayas you return to your place by the workbench,knowing that as soon as the hammering resumesyou will slowly lift the bottom of the calendarjust enough to reveal a glimpse of whatthe future holds in store: ah,the red polka dot umbrella of April and herupturned palm extended coyly into the rain.
