I hate it when the TV screams at me for things I haven’t done. It’s worse than the ticking of the clock that’s always resented the time I wasted on you. The toaster purposely burns my bread having seen me being too familiar with the microwave. So many appliances in this room hold grudges over what can’t be redone.
Sometimes it gets lonely here so I go out to meet other lonely souls. Then I bring them home and leave. Who wants people like that in your home?
I remember a childhood when there was always something cooking. And always an argument brewing. My father was a small man who made his presence felt. His battles with himself and those he loved were legendary and unmade us all.
Sometimes when I think of you I play Chet Baker. Only the junkman and angels know how deep you hurt me. I think this one is in C, but I’ll sit it out.
I have lost myself in so many books that now sit on my shelves like dead weight and taunt me. I think I last saw me in London, in the rain, standing outside Ronnie Scott’s club. But then again it may’ve been the person I wanted to be. Or just another story. There’ve been too many stories filled with too many characters battling in too many crowded hours.
They have cancelled my eroticism cable channel and now all I get is sports. Or static. The latter is free and I’ve come to read things into it.
I sometimes watch Jane Bum attempt to predict the weather but my feeling is she’s not psychic and just toying with me.
I missed the coverage of the Heavyweight Championship Title Match but caught a good fight just outside my apartment. It only went a few rounds as neither fighter had seemed to train. My advice on the finer points of boxing were violently shunned by them and I now sport scars for caring too much. Although I believe I won on points.
There is something very comforting in the voice of Doris Day. Yes, whatever will be, will be. Advice far more profound than anything in the Ten Commandments. Or in Charlton Heston’s beard.
Sometimes you have to face the cold wind of another day. That’s why God grants us dreams.
(c) Frank Howson 2015
