Sloop John B

It’s 7am, and i’m starting in. I’ve been insulating a lot of Vans. One an out of control obsession. But none today, I think. No one’s pretty yellow and I feel the tinges. Sharper each time. But it’s only making me stronger, as ‘the saying’ says.

This is that glorious beneath-em’ basement to which we’re all persuaded to descend. It’s like destiny by Darwin’s terms. We all do what we do best the most. And we all have lines that need fillin’. I got my father’s lines. Chalk dust, sirs. Little chalk-dust children in the sewer.

Yesterday an angel might have come to my house. He pulled into my driveway in a green Ford pick-up from 1963 and honked. I came to the door and looked out at him. He shouted at me asking, “Can you come over here young fella?” (or something else more sharp-tongued and southern) I shoot my head suggesting that I couldn’t on account of my not having put on shoes before coming to the door. I had of course expected the honk to be the attention grabbing waste of time that they usually are. So he then opens his rusting old truck door with a shrill sounding karate palm to it’s center and climbs down. It quickly becomes obvious, as he passed around the vehicle into sight, that his years had not been kind to him. His bare legs shook like in winter-time. I of course felt some regret in not having coming over to him. When he got up the stairs to me I said I was sorry that I hadn’t come out. He said, “It’s not your fault, son.”