Looks Like a Nice Day

Looks like a nice day When my wife has treatment for her legs, I notice most patients are women who in their youth had worn high-heeled shoes; but what do I know it could have been childbearing, weakening the bones. I sit outside a small café; the weather has gone from overcast to mild sun. Four workers enter; three of them are black, painting the house for a man who looks Irish but isn’t, he is middle-aged and has curly grey hair and drinks a pint of ale while painters in sudden sobriety drink water they eat a stew of meat and beans On another table sits a tall black man, I think he is a poet, If, my old friend Jimmy, who has been sober for 30 years, would have said the tall man was an alcoholic drinking wine so early. It was a nightmare going to a restaurant with Jimmy, scanned tables and if anyone had more than two beers, he said they were alcoholics, I didn’t dare drink in his presence. Sometimes, Jimmy went on my nerves, was hectic and got irritated when things didn’t go his way also smoked like a chimney This working-class neighbourhood is blessed, a place peaceful, free of racism and the dreaded BLM.