Foggy / Otro dia . . .

Was it five hours? Six? Eight?

Nobody knows and nobody cares. All alone as we wake, ready to tackle what? The day? Pshaw . . .

My head is a muddle, long years taking their toll. Momma's power of positive thinking tries to roll them back. I long for her to be right (and I've not quite given up) but I am left to wonder.

Spring in my step. Summer in my manner. Autumn lingers but cold winter is my destiny, whether I like it or not.

Eyes like the cracked and muddied bottom of an old green Coke bottle, once found along the tracks. Ears like cotton candy, old steel wool. Tender touch a little dull now. Oh the miles how they do wear . . .

But as I’ve learned along the way, the path’s been trod before me, and there is comfort in that. So follow the leader young William, follow and you’ll find your way . . .