Monday Morning

The cats are so rambunctious this morning. It is tiresome. They want so much attention, and when I try to do my bloggy thing, they start fighting each other. I don’t get it. The morning is usually their sleepy time.

Pop

Pop get out of bed at about 11:30. He was talking chummily with Victor over the phone, and now he comes into the kitchen singing his snatches of song and making pseudo-music sound effects, like a thirteen-year-old boy, fresh with life, practically skipping when he walks. Good. The noise irritates me, and I have to shut the door and put on the fan for white noise, but good. Life goes on.

Pop

The recliner will be delivered on Thursday. He says they will even pick up the old chair and place it on the curb. I say that I hope they can fit the big chair through the door. Pop says it is easy for them. They can remove the back of the chair and then re-set it as pretty as you please. He says, “What is easy for them … is not easy for me.” I was impressed by his humility, but he ruins it and says that “there’s always a part missing or something.” Yeah, it’s not because one is helpless. Junior. That’s him. But I cannot really say anything, since I am a chip off the old block in that respect. I got a nice knack with words and making sentences, as well as on reading sentences, but aside from that, I am about as dumb as the old man. Worse, I don’t have his humility to get a low-wage job.

Under the Harvest Moon

This poem does not fully do it for me, but since it has been a long time since I have come across a poem that moves me in the least, I will keep it.

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Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

-- "Under the Harvest Moon" by Carl Sandburg

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