Another sunny day. Another phrase without a verb is sticking in my craw as I sit cold-assed on the curb, praying to my coffee, reading through an article on my phone to give my mind something to chew through before it hits bone when I’m tapping on the keys, shooting the breeze, eager to please, putting the customer at ease. I may be in it for the bread but on a good day, I am fed, if I can only find a thread of the novel in my head. Half an hour for lunch. This sticky sidewalk makes me gag. I crash into a lady toting a dying fish in a purple plastic bag. What was I thinking? What was I so sure I had to say? I have an empty notebook and break is over anyway. And then I’m slopping the hogs, fending off the dogs, mopping up the bogs, clearing the clogs. I can no longer play a role: I’ve got no buffer for my soul. I just stand around and scroll into an apocalyptic hole.