Up at five.
Have to pee. No, you don't. Yes, I do.
Waking does not end the dream.
Reviewing that embryonic summer of ’32,
umbilically speaking.
Half awake but woke and half in pillowed drift,
turning swords to words,
over my head in this stream of streams,
a hummingbird in strenuous stillness,
ashore to find my loom of hanging threads.
I do everything I never ever...
Run three miles, Fifty push-ups.
Pilates, Tai Chi, Yoga …no sweat.
Pedal to Patagonia on stationary bike.
Walk the dog I don’t have.
Water my pet rock, Feed the fish,
Listen to Art Pepper.
Prune the herb garden.
Thinking about Johnny Mercer songs.
Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe.
Other train songs... Chattanooga Choo-Choo (1941)
Tempus ... big hands ... fugit.
This Train Was Made For Glory. Midnight Special.
Planning my afterlife.
The java is roasted, the bagel is toasted.
An occasional rhyme happens
in this familiar chaos I call order
to meet another ho-hum day.
Last train to Clarkesville.
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