I’m sitting on my front porch. The air has cooled off, but the cement is still warm. I’m drinking a Colorado Bulldog with Captain Morgan Swirlspice. The grass is freshly cut and watered, and my nose hasn’t stuffed up yet. There are dogs barking on both ends of the block. Fat Paul is walking up the street towards his house. I can hear the neighbor’s television.
The tree in the front yard used to have a branch that I could jump up and grab and haul myself up by. It got cut off a few years ago. I still miss it. That was such an accomplishment, to climb up in that tree. I can still see the usual climbing route. I can’t believe my parents let me get up there.
My mom’s experimenting with the landscaping in the front yard. All the little bushes are square cut except one on the end. That one she’s trying to groom in a round ball. I said it looks more like my hair, so my mom pronounced that now I have my own bush, and its name is “Irk.” I don’t think she understood why I laughed at that.
My car is parked in front of the house. I’ll have to scootch it up before Tuesday, because Tuesday is Garbage Day and if my car is too close to the bin, the garbage truck won’t pick it up.
The streetlight just came on.
