sometimesaway

At the country club the old men sit in a basement wearing a snack-bar mask. They grunt and groan through a day or cards with one another, carrying a tradition as far back as they want to remember. I want to ask where their families are, why they aren't somewhere being a grandfather, but I never know how to say it. The drawer spins out another reciept. These moments keep passing me by. A man knocks at the window, he has a tee-time see, we must be brief, a hot dog and a drink, a consumed moment with no reflection. An old man grunts for his cup of soup which he'll complain is not hot enough, or too hot, or too salty, or tasteless. A man knocks on a window, for a drink a drink a drink. These moments keep passing me by.

Hurry hurry for a thing for a mess for a cleaning for a meaning. Hurry hurry the garbage can's where? There. Lean in hurry. SMACK.

I've just hit my head.

A coworker laughs, as do I. A funny thing.

Three days later, and I have to go to the hospital. I can't stand up quite straight. A concussion, mild, off my feet for a few days. I stagger to a coffee shop to tell you. These moments just keep passing me by. Three days off work, but I can't really walk right just yet. Ouchy!


Love

adam