MORNING GLORY

I'm having brunch at Morning Glory. The enchiladas are excellent, drowned in a tomatillo sauce with diced onions sprinkled over the tortillas.

I need to stop at Buho for a book I ordered. Then it's home for the rest of the day.
My step-son arrived from San Antonio. He wants to have dinner tonight. He hasn't forgotten that I treated him like my own flesh and blood.
It's a grateful feeling knowing that you haven't been summarily dismissed from a person's life as other intimates have exiled and exorcised you from their existences.
As T.S. Eliot said: “In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.”
As usual, it will be an afternoon of writing, exercising and reading. It's an overcast day with a cool breeze wafting from the gulf. Praise the Lord that summer hasn't descended upon us in all its fury.
Life is a complicated undertaking that only we can simplify.
The pool is calling me. I will dive into the cold water and a serenity will subsume me. I have a cautious confidence that I'm not going to die today.
The waitresses at Morning Glory are young and pretty. We old men can solely admire them from a safe distance. Our eyes are as fierce as a lion's glare, but we can only hide in the tall grass and slap away flies with our tails.
I hope to see you soon. Take care.

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