Robert Okaji: Letter to Gierke from the Future’s Past

Dear Ken: I’m fixated on open faucets and drained tanks,

on cracked PVC and browned grass, denial and what’s to

come, thinking of old dogs and accusations and how

the morning’s lopsided beginning has wrung out every

shred of positive emotion absorbed overnight. Then

a pinpoint emerges, swelling, until I can see, as through

a spidery windshield, tomorrow and its improbabilities.

Last weekend I built a window screen to exact measurements,

only to discover the sill tilted on the north by a quarter-inch,

and in order to install the damned thing I had to shorten

its right side, ruining the rectangle. Perfection eludes me,

even when guided by tape and square, especially in this

climate of exacerbated deterioration, which has not, alas,

excluded me – sciatic nerve, shoulders, knees, hands, etc.

But enough whining. Tea leaves predict that in a few hours

I’ll cross the creek trickling over the road, check the cisterns

and drop off tomorrow’s drinks before heading home to

swat mosquitoes and grill sage-rubbed pork kebabs while

sipping hoppy brews. That’s as far into the future as I

care to venture. The Cowboys drafted a lineman named

Taco, the weeds need mowing and my belly says noon

is fast approaching. I’d like carnitas, but have only rice

and beans, which probably signifies something far deeper

than my conscience will admit, trials I’ll never face. A

thunderstorm looms in the forecast, but my left ankle says

it ain’t happening. What do your mended bones claim?

Mine usually plead the fifth, but hey, they’re careful,

these days, and with good reason. Take care. Bob

Copyright 2017 Robert Okaji