I can no longer tell the day of the week
or recall why Sacco and Vanzetti got fried.
I watch a fly zigzag on my window
struggling to find a way outdoors.
I keep looking at the clock on the wall
waiting for this long day to be over.
I rock back and forth in a rocking chair
with my black Burmese cat on my lap.
I chew tobacco like a cow chewing its cud
while humming songs from the 1930’s.
I must be waiting for a bus or a train—
but I don’t know where I’m going
or who might be coming with me.
I’m told I’ll be the first to find out.
I just hope they bring my spittoon.
Milton P. Ehrlich 199 Christie