Sitting at a Starbucks table,

no journals, no laptop, just the phone.  No one sitting around me, so I can’t eavesdrop.  And I have to create some story.  A story.  What story.  Was rushed again this morning having to iron a pair of pants and find a sweater that didn’t have a spit-up spot on the collarbone or shoulder.  So here I am, trying to shake this morning moat of a mood. Sitting at a table sipping on a 5-shot mocha.  Can’t remember the last time I ordered one of these.  Breathe, I tell myself.  Just breathe and look forward to the day.  It will be easy, getting what I want from the day.  This day.  My day.  Already the 6th of October.  Always been the writer’s time, I’ve thought– with Halloween, Novemeber near, colors, wind pace and flavor…  So in this favorite month, the aorta of autumn, I change things a bit.  Focus more on me, go down to one class for Spring ’17.  ’17…  Jesus.  2017.  Time is not waiting for anything, or anyone.  Certainly not this writer, this aging father.  But I’m here at the Hopper Starbucks, for some reason, a single reason.  Is it just for this entry or something else?  Or, this Story.  Daddy narrative before work, before a whole eight hours away from the home office, away from campus, away from study, away from his running route.  But he has to.  “Has to”…  Have always loathed that logic.  But there’s nothing I can do, at least right away.  Wait, no… Yes there is.  Watch me.  Watch me do something, change something, augment something.  Time won’t wait for me, so I won’t wait for it.  Ever again.  I’m just going to do what I want… Write, travel, tell this running-writing-traveling father’s pages.  Compromise NOTHING.

One person sitting in front me of, two tables away.  But they’re boring, I find.  Just sitting there on their phone.