We play backgammon on the stone wall. Voices carry, some more than others, but that doesn't defeat the rule. K. rides by and introduces us to the verb "skunked." That's one way a day can unfold, a fine one. In another I don't forget the lettuce.
Sympathy for the Devil is a good song! We pause to watch turkey vultures circling and worry is it a fawn. Fresh cut grass, scent of lemons. Cats in the window make most people smile. Fear is predominant, particularly in those who think otherwise.
One grows tired of yet another quote and yet another sentence. Black beans, corn tortillas and cheap beer. Last night's fire was warm until noon. You have a way of removing your clothing that leaves me breathless. Elvis Presley understood one way guitars work, Carl Perkins a whole other.
My grandfather's walking stick is still propped in the corner. I remember the last time we took a piss together, off the back stairs at maybe 2 a.m. in winter, stone drunk and laughing so loud we woke Ma who came down to see her "happy boys." The song did not exist and then it did and I heard it and that was that. How tired I am! Sitting up night after night, trying as always to remember what to forget.