Reset Forty-Nine, Day Sixty-Seven

[rejectomorph]

Another evening nap that (after a late start) turned into a night's sleep (more or less.) Saturday I made a sandwich, which is the closest I've come to making an actual meal in some days. I made some posts on a theater website, but aside from that I don't remember much. My new juicer/blender and air fryer are still in their packages, awaiting use. I have no idea when I'll get around to setting them up. They are machines, after all, and thus my enemies.

Currently I'm having a very hard time adjusting my chair to be something resembling comfortable to me. I don't think my butt likes chairs anymore, and I'm sure my hip joints don't. But then my legs don't like standing up and carrying all my weight, so I'm in a bind. I can't lie down all the time, though I can try, by God! Most likely I'm just doomed to perpetual discomfort.

Let's see if this other enemy machine will do what I want and post this entry.




Sunday Verse

My Busconductor

by Roger McGough


My busconductor tells me
he has only one kidney
and that may soon go on strike
through overwork.
Each busticket
takes on now a different shape
and texture.
He holds a ninepenny single
as if it were a rose
and puts the shilling into his bag
as a child into a gasmeter.
His thin lips
have no quips
for fat factorygirls
and he ignores
the drunk who snores
and the oldman who talks to himself
and gets off at the wrong stop.

He goes gently to the bedroom
of the bus
to collect
and what familiar shops and pubs pass by
(perhaps for the last time?).
The same old streets look different now
more distinct
as through new glasses.
And the sky
was it ever so blue?

And all the time
deepdown in the deserted busshelter of his mind
he thinks about his journey nearly done.
One day he'll clock on and never clock off
or clock off and never clock on.