mmdcclxvii

The White Cliffs of Dover

           Old age is not to be believed.

                                          —Joe Brainard

I woke up

this morning

with no hang-

over (I mean 
like the ones

that occur

without the

aid of a yes-

terday of

drinking or
participating

in alternative

festivities).

Meaning:

I’m young

again. Check

Roger slither-

ing out of the

bedroom and

into the L-

shaped hall-

way.  Check.

Roger.  I’m

slithering as

well, out from

under my blank-

ets to grab my

favorite pull-

over, head to

the shower

for a quick

scald and

a comb-

over.

Mostly

happy,

like al-

most al-

ways; re-
lieved with-
in the con-
viction that

I’m in no

need of a

do-over.

“Check,”

shouts

Roger

with both

arms up

in the air.