polite

lie in bed, feel the pain in the back, the steady dull ache of a tired cartilage disc between two vertebra,   prolapsed or collapsed or whatever. Roll over onto the other side, it stops aching for a while. But then, it starts again.

Get up, go to the bathroom, the morning drama, mundane, urbane, smelly.

oh well, that's nature.

Clean the teeth, the buzz of an electric toothbrush, oscilating, scrubbing the acumulated sleep off the teeth.

and back to the bedroom, read about German greed and American trepidation in the news publications on the internet. Britannia's slow awakening  from her delusions of grandeur are a meanwhile boring episode unto themselves.

Put on the clothes, the ones from yesterday will do, the wife is still snoring, it is a holiday day, all hallows or something, the son comes in and wants to go to the café.

Why not.

Tell him that he will need to get some day clothes on to do that, and maybe to comb his sleep tangled hair.

And leave the house, into the grey day, the rain falling softly and dampening everything, it is cool and nasty.

And in the café, to be served by a girl wearing a fake tan , orange yellow, and a phony smile, polite.

The first visitor to this account this month was from Japan.

So far, the only one.

And the author still trying to learn portuguese to be able to read poems that are no longer on line.