February 12, 2024:

I live across the street from a physical rehab facility. Throughout much of the day you find dudes in wheelchairs socializing on street corners. Typically sharing clouds of weed.

Weed has never been my thing. I don't want them to offer me any, and I don't want to be rude. So I smile, say hello, flash peace signs, and keep moving.

My mailbox is full. I empty it seldom. There's rarely if ever anything good inside, or even useful. Today: "Send no money!" You got it. I promise that I will not do.

February 11, 2024:

The vicious guard dog. Mastiff, yellow-orange, elderly and slow. Older even than I.

"Is it alright if I say hello?" Her human is guarded, but through her own mysterious criteria decides I'm alright.

"Yes," she says. "She's friendly. A bit too friendly, maybe."

She and me both.

February 10, 2024:

I'm in the desert. The sun is hot. On my face its lack of mercy feels good.

Once there was a riverbank. Now it's dammed. As a small child, my mother and her mother lived near here in a trailer alongside the stream. Now it's condos, where I live today.

This is as much as I can do. About a mile and a half. The sun is hot. On my face its lack of mercy feels good. I'm sixty-eight and I worry about dehydration and sunstroke. Ending before the feeling degrades seems appropriate.