11:00am

By

Sal Rodriguez

I'm still in bed; it's 11:00am. I know it's 11:00am, I don't even need to look at the clock.

I recognize 11:00am. As my crust-filled eyes see the beams of light on my ceiling and walls - the sun yearning to make it's way through my cat-clawed curtains.

I recognize 11:00am. As the stuffy air pushes it's way through my cracked window, in a whimper, like the wheezing of a tobacco-impaired lung.

It's 11:00am. I know, because my throat has that hasn't has water for seven hours feeling, because I'm out of bottled water. Who drinks tap water in LA? The homeless perhaps, or the stray cat that I feed near my paking spot everyday - that ungrateful cat, who won't let me pet him, even after five years of spending my money for his cans of meat by-products.

Yes, I know 11:00am. I can feel my tight calves - my piano string Achille's tendons, that daily need to creak and settle, not unlike an old house that's filled with wood-beam ceilings, mold, and decades of worry. My calves - lamenting the four marathons, yet accepting of the fact that they'll be working again, step after step, mile after mile, because I'm five-feet-eight, and I don't like weighing two-hundred pounds.

Yes, 11:00am. My stomach can feel it - bloated as it is, from the previous days lack of fiber, insufficient water, and surplus of meat. I need to get vertical. My bowels are like the old house, and the creaking calves, years of working overtime with no end in sight. I swear I'll do that colon-cleanse one day, maybe even a high colonic; just be patient with me.

11:00am. With my stuffed-up nose, that started swelling about six-years ago. I got my two cats about six-years ago.

Maybe there's a connection.  

2005 I Feel Funny Productions™