Temp in the high 90s. Torture-chamber work day. Mandatory two-hour nap in the sense you pass out on the couch with your shoes on. Ho-ho, things could be much worse in someone else’s shoes.
If the shoe fits wear it. If you can’t get it on your foot call in Cinderella. If you can’t lift your right arm at the end of the day grin and bear it. The twists and turns of longevity.
I guess I showed them, the soothsayers, the no-sayers, the odds makers and the dreamless multitudes who thought they had me locked down in a time capsule. They missed the show, they had their heads in the sand, they were plugged in to the late show, diddling their apps, bowing down to their reflections in their I-pad screens. Dying young on their feet, their eyes drained of heat.
Sampson with the jaw bone of Saint Peter, waiting on Romans. He plucks a molar from from the mandible and spits it at the moon and ping, down rain Kewpie dolls by the thousands. The winner with a thousand faces.
The Romans won’t show. That scene is dead in the water. A nod to Sampson as I drift thru the years. The journey ends when the fighting’s done.