-Requiem for George Frayne still among the living, now dead-

8/1:
the new poem, the one about “honky-tonk” music
(generally speaking) is finished, but dated as to subject matter,
time and long distance geography.

the time for moving forward is of my choosing,

so I can stick around for awhile.

George Frayne could be dead by the time I get around to it.

meanwhile, the church grows increasingly impatient with me

like crazy Julius looking up to the scaffolding.

8/2:
I’m told by Donald Trump that my vote might not be counted
because I voted the easy way and the yellow-stained leak started again
without provocation under the sink.

also on the home front, the fridge is empty except for three

individually wrapped and processed American cheese slices

and television’s been a dud since they cancelled Fulton J. Sheen’s show.

8/3:
there's a sprinkling of sawdust in the far corner of the kitchen,
a mystery this morning that wasn't available to me yesterday.
my momma opined at times like these: "I’m a nervous wreck".

I've submitted a request for the right to use this confessor when justifiable.

8/4:
considering my medicine, I see it's five more days to qualify for a refill.
I've swept away the sawdust so I'm on the edge, waiting for tomorrow's results.
who am I kidding? I'm not getting any work done today.

8/4:

I’m loitering in my own house

which to my surprise I’m told is legal.

I've nearly surpassed the cat in lost time and lack of effort,

and "I’m down to seeds and stems again, too."