Looking At Things

Looking at things Walking on cobblestones is an ordeal and more is the traffic, I look out of the window when I walk on my treadmill count how many cars going around the roundabout. When I have counted 500, I stop this treadmill 15 minutes have gone by. When I lived at the border of Alentejo I walked on the soft grass and counted flowers saw grass grow into fodder for sheep. A Moldavian family bought my house, people tell me how lucky I was selling the house I had many offers but told no one, hence “lucky.” My lyrical mine is all but dried up, now reduced to write about furniture, a sad fall from grace.