Sitting on the porch

It’s that kindof day. Where Dogs whine and bark to be let out and scratches at the door as manifestations of the itchy feet and cats are nowhere to be seen. A day when the bonds that hold you down drag like cement shoes and the humidity bears down on you like lead rain. The world is dull with opportunity.

Clomp

Clomp

Clomp at five metres your new shoes give your feet blisters.

Clomp

Clomp

At ten your shirt is soaked.

Clomp

At fifteen you can barely move. And you look back and the house beckons with promises of crisp iced tea in the refrigerator, and ice in the freezer beside chocolate dipped revels. And you can’t make it any farther because you’re too tired. And there’s things to be done today. And besides you can leave anytime.

So you slog your way back. The tea feels new and alive in your throat, and the ice cream wakes you up and you’re almost ready to go, but the newspaper beckons with possibility. All the possibilities in the world in the weekend edition. You pick it up and flip through. Everything that can be done overseas and under seas. You catalogue them in the back of your mind safe for when you make you’re getaway.

Then you look up and the sun is fading and the darkness outside is too formidable for your small light. And the NewYorkTimesCrossword is nearly done, so you might as well put it off ‘till tomorrow.

The crossword is done and your mind is near blank. You wash your face, maybe take a cold shower before you go to bed and dream of all the things you will do tomorrow, all the new ideas you gained from today that will be put into action.

And you get up in the morning and tomorrow is gone like the imagined sight of a friend in a crowd and it’s today again and the dogs bark and whine and you can’t find your cat and the paper sits on the porch.