GORDON WASHBURN, my exterminator, was here around noon on Saturday, April 30. He checked all the bad spots and pronounced my house free of ants, mice, and termites.
He wore an OLD GLORY shirt, the name of his company. He bought it from someone else.
What dyou do with all dat money? I asked him.
Pay my bills, he said. He's got a GF he lives with and he showed me pix of their two adorable golden retrievers.
I waited all day long to write my short story for our Saturday writing group. Took me about five hours since I knew what to write about.
It's the true story of when I worked for Symphony Manor, a full service retirement home. Somewhere on my computer - the upstairs one - I have notes on everything I did. Psychotherapists do this.
Did I mention that yesterday - oh dear, lost my train of thought as my daughter Sarah called.
She suggested I change my answering machine message to a regular one, since Covid 19 is not such a problem and many of us, including myself, have been vaccinated.
POEM
Gordon, even though I pay you
it's a pleasure to see you.
You're kind, considerate, and of all the unusual things
You ask about my art projects.
We peeked onto the back porch where my art works lie
Many made from Styrofoam, which may take billions of years to crumble
If I don't know I can always ask GRETA THUNBERG
Who tells the world, and yours truly, what to do.
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