washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook

out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back

hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your

excercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill

with life, the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on teh

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the mutuel

clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it's just

my cat

this

time.