Saturday morning I was sure I'd gotten up early enough to get my letters into the mailbox in plenty of time, and it was done before noon. The guy usually doesn't get here until late afternoon, but this time he was either very early or he just didn't bother to pick my stuff up, as when I went out at dusk to see if anything had been delivered, all the box contained was the three envelopes I'd put out. They can't go out Sunday, so the earliest I can mail them will be Monday, which will be cutting it a bit close. I hope none of the bills get late fees.
The weather forecast is still looking grim, now with triple digit high days today and tomorrow and two more upcoming later in the week, and several nights with lows in the seventies. It's going to be unpleasant. I'm not sure I'll get out to any stores, though I do need some things. I mean I could get by without them, but would rather have them than not. Last summer, which I thought miserable at the time, now seems like a golden age. Now I'm wondering how awful the summer of 2021 might get, if there is a summer of 2021, and I survive to see it. If so, perhaps I will have forgotten this summer altogether, since at least half of my brain has been cooked out of my skull already, I'm sure. The rest should be gone by September. Odds are I won't even miss it.
Melting into the Foreground
by Roger McGough
Head down and it's into the hangover.
Last night was a night best forgotten.
(Did you really kiss a man on the forehead?)
At first you were fine.
Melting into the foreground.
Unassuming. A good listener.
But listeners are speakers
Gagged by shyness
And soon the wine has pushed its velvet fingers down your throat.
You should have left then. Got your coat.
But no. You had the Taste.
Your newfound gift of garbled tongue
Seemed far too good to waste.
Like a vacuum-cleaner on heat
You careered hither and thither
Sucking up the smithereens
Of half-digested chat.
When not providing the lulls in conversation
Your strangled banter
Stumbled on to disbelieving ears.
Girls braved your leering incoherences
Being too polite to mock
(Although your charm was halitoxic,
Your wit, wet sand in a sock).
When not fawning over the hostess
You were falling over the furniture
(Helped to your feet, I recall,
By the man with the forehead).
Gauche attempts to prise telephone numbers
From happily married ladies
Did not go unnoticed.
Nor did pocketing a bottle of Bacardi
When trying to leave
In the best coat you could find.
I'd lie low if I were you.
Stay at home for a year or two.
Take up painting. Do something ceramic.
Failing that, emigrate to somewhere Islamic.
The best of luck whatever you do.
I'm baling out, you're on your own.
Cockpit blazing, out of control,
Into the hangover. Head down.