Lately, I’ve taken to letting the world wash over
me. Passively. Not Zen
thoughts about suffering & acceptance, but more
general fatigue. I tried a random word generator,
but I don’t think you’re supposed to
hit “refresh” with each list. Nothing clicks,
so I wander outside to the courtyard & open
the cantilever umbrella—side-hanging & blood-red,
but with bleached-out stripes where the sun
beat down. I wish I cared enough to scrub the mold
off the fabric, like I have in years past. I’ve considered
a new one, but I can’t imagine carrying the old
to the trash. Isn’t it typical that there’s no way
to replace just the worn-out cloth? Planned obsolescence.
Maybe I’ve lost the will, but (for sure) I’ve lost the make & model
number—the times I’ve researched…
Believe me! Still, I don’t know why I resist the effort
to start or finish anything…I move when the wind stirs
enough. I hang on with one strong arm.
But who knows how frayed this cord is?