I settle on the couch about half past three. The day is cloudy, the light thin. Sunday afternoon Arts program and a blanket, with cold at the window, the garden the colour of winter. Smudgy. Impressionist. I drift in sleep on the couch, as the day turns to night. Snug. Missy purrs at my feet.
The light is brittle, it cracks and breaks. The only light in the room is the blue of the TV dancing on my face. I'm in my cocoon. I think to myself, I must be the laziest bastard alive.
I got the back yard cleaned up, despite the rain. My arms hurt. I mulched the garden, every last fucken square inch of it. That's how much shit there was; all last seasons, and then some, garden prunings.
Missy is taking the ointment in the eye graciously.
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