No Plans

One of the two walls is looking quite good, the other needs another coat. The crew at the pub wants the next batch of mashed potato croquettes. Set the glass show tomorrow. I guess that is a plan. Get D to drive me to the library and liquor store. Need to get over to the University, where Anthony has installed some of his work in the faculty art show. Too much on my mind, not functioning up to speed. Put off calling Mom for a day, so I could get my act together. Have to back my sister on changes that need made. They can't live in their house anymore. Wheelchairs and walkers. The good news is everyone is still alive and lucid. Crack of dawn, I suited up and walked below the floodwall, the Ohio in mist, a vapor of still escaping heat. One carp rolling, three geese on stop-over, a Kingfisher working that boundary where the Scioto inflows. I'm not happy with myself, responding to events, I've lost a step, and I hate that I'm slower, but I'm not as sure of my feet as I used to be, and I have to look, to see where the next foot falls. Fuck a bunch of aging, I don't care, but I'm aware of where the next foot falls. I ignore almost everything, really, I mean, almost everything is dross; why would you spend your time looking at that? I come up with some ideas, I'm both ahead of, and behind, any codification. In Cod We Trust. We have people doing coffee sleeves and bumper-stickers. What bothers me is someone who thinks they're unique, the way they parade. What I leaned, early to the cloth, was to just say nothing.