What Congress Needs is a Good Cigar

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I had just found a much better word for the transition in another op-ed and was already leapfrogging to write a “wow” finish when I heard from outside my window “oh-oo-oor, oh-oo-oor, oh-oo-oor.” There on the ledge — as if it were summer — was Coco and some friends, my pigeon buddies. Their feathers buffeted the wind and they stared at me, as if inviting me to soar with them through the holiday-brightened streets.

So transfixed was I that I did not hear the steps approaching. It was the smell that caused me to turn from Coco and crew and see my guest.

There in my office doorway stood the Old Geezer, Borsalino hat atop his head and a fine-looking, fine-smelling Cuban cigar glowing in his right hand.

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