Number Nine

When I first retired years ago I started a writing group because I didn't have a ready bunch of people to hang out with and I was afraid I'd never leave the house if I were left on my own. There were six of us and we met once a week for several years. We called it the Puppies and Kitties Club, a name stolen from a big drippy hand-painted sign I saw downtown in some kid's window. That name always felt to me like a secret girls' club in the Little Lulu comics. We wrote from the heart, shared our work and our lives. It was wonderful. We don't meet any more. Some women moved away, two passed away, and somehow those of us left just lost steam. But one thing we still do is meet for a celebratory lunch in February when three of us have birthdays. And here I sit, waiting for my puppies and kitties, idly looking out the restaurant window at the number nine. 

Engine, engine number 9. 
Running down Chicago line. 
If the train should jump the track,
do you want your money back?

It's getting darker and darker, the rains are coming again. Time to go put a towel under the deck door, build a fire and segue into happy hour.