washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebookout againI write from the bedas I did lastyear.will see the doctor,Monday.“yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-aches and my backhurts.”“are you drinking?” he will ask.“are you getting yourexercise, yourvitamins?”I think that I am just illwith life, the same stale yetfluctuatingfactors.even at the trackI watch the horses run byand it seemsmeaningless.I leave early after buying tickets on theremaining races.“taking off?” asks the motelclerk.“yes, it’s boring,”I tell him.“If you think it’s boringout there,” he tells me, “you […]