THE TREADMILL MAKES THE DAY
I can still breathe at the end. I am radioactive, photographed, walk or
trot the treadmill, tell the doctor to catch me if I drop dead, "warn
us" he replies. Find out my primary care doctor sings operatic arias at
hospital Christmas parties: immediately he rises in my estimation. And
physical strain: I think I would have been happy as a hod-carrier, but
was never told what a hod is supposed to be.
Speaking of strong back/weak mind, go from the hospital to vote in the
Jersey primary. My grandparents, Socialists, are turning over in their
graves--I registered Republican for purposes of the primary because the
Democrats are unrelenting dirtbags. Nothing in Jersey is what you might
expect unless your expectations are pitched so weirdly that you figure
to find a temperamental pitbull waiting for you in your toilet. It
doesn't matter much: everyone needs to sit down sooner or later,
politics apart, and the dog is very patient until you get there.
At night, news of Anne Bancroft. Same high school I went to, class of
1943, I could never take my eyes off her. Why do we grieve
entertainers, pretenders and performers, if they were truly among the
great? No secret that can escape the cliche, because Annie Sullivan
could teach me to speak and Mrs. Robison could have her way with me any
day of the week.
KTW/6-8-05
--
Kenneth Wolman
Proposal Development Department
Room SW334
Sarnoff Corporation
609-734-2538
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