July morning
doors open,
so that I see my fuschia,
the large potted one in bloom.
And the bouquet banished
to the picnic table
because it attracted ants.
A white towel draped
on the plastic chair rather
than across the deck rail
where it gets stained.
The wipe down towel
used after showers,
my attempt to curtail mildew
in the grout of our overgrown
shower they call a Roman tub.
No tub at all.
Scrubbing the grout
an arm wrenching task
which leaves me numb
and in pain,
unable to write,
or even read.
All my attempts to manage
this material life
must make God laugh.
But what else
is there to do,
give up?
I do that too,
almost daily,
around four.
Too dumb to think
of another thing
to do.