trousers rolled up like Huck Finn. straw hat shading his face. glass of lemonade and a cigarette. a gentle breeze keeps him cool, as does Van Morrison on the radio.
the cat sleeps in the shade, too soporific to chase the birds in front of his nose.
he regards his toes. they look rotten. his pasty feet have been cooped in socks and shoes for months. but now they're free. soaking sun. shoeless. liberated.
he surveys the garden. flowers in bloom. colourful explosions frozen in the heat.
on a day like this there are no troubles in the world. he feels sunk in contentment. he sighs heavily. releasing any tension from the day's work. he sits up. stretches. arches his back and wriggles his toes.
time has stopped. he writes in his journal. filling a page even though he's written today already. he sips the cold lemonade and considers rolling another smoke.
a butterfly zig-zags past.
he thinks of stolen fragments of a day.
with no one to please but himself.
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