You can tell what I ate for lunch
this week by thumbing through
the book I’m reading. A splash
of pasta sauce on page 194. A
drop of soup on the first page
of chapter fifteen. For today,
my last slice of bologna, two
thin slices of provolone, Dijon
mustard on wheat bread. Out
of radishes, so I went for three
green olives. A few crumbles of
odd gluten-free chips and of
course, thermos coffee. The
book I’m reading takes place in
Florence so the splotch of
sauce adds realism to the page.
It is 106° F a little after two. I
want to walk, but I need my
body to cooperate with me. My
feet hurt, but I want to do this!
I started to get ready to walk.
My left foot was too swollen
and painful. Trying to ignore
it wouldn’t work here. Not
walking was wisdom. So, I
changed into my uniform of the
day, e.g., warm up pants and
a T-shirt, then returned here
to my desk. I decided to be
content anyway. Another day of
life; no reason to pout or kvetch.
But I clicked one of those things
at the bottom of a news article
and wasted an hour looking at a
dumb “Where Are They Now”
series. I couldn’t remember half
the people shown. And a dumb
never-before-seen slide show
from the Vietnam War. Both of
them were goofy and a waste of
time. Why did I do that? Worse,
another one caught my eye about
the top twenty military countries.
The photos were odd and the
text was devoid of anything that
made sense to justify their
standing. Sounds like my life.
Still in a holding pattern, goofy,
and doesn’t make sense. I’m the
plane that never lands or the
train that never stops. Someday
the desires of my heart will
come true. And someday is
getting closer every day. (Garage
door going up. She is home.) We
talked while she nuked some
lentils in a light spicy tomato
sauce for her dinner. Our time
clocks don’t match. I’m thinking
afternoon tea or an espresso.
Tea is less of a chore. That is how
I feel today. No dinner thoughts.
But chapter sixteen, page 236
is on deck for tomorrow at lunch.
Tea thoughts evaporated for now.
Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)
I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)