I awoke early this morning to a light rain, here in the suburbs, where a nameless army of self-important people were still asleep, recharging for another day of striving for relevance.
I wanted to jump in the truck and head back home. Miles away from anywhere relevant. There I would sit again on the front porch, up on the hill, overlooking the holler, just up from Rockvale, entertained by that familiar, unpretentious choir of tree frogs.
I would sit real quiet-like and maybe hear a possum (or is it a woodchuck) rustling in the cane somewhere down there along the gurgling creek that cuts through the holler.
My old beagle mutt, her belly satisfied from scraps of mom’s sausage and gravy, left over from supper, would snore unashamedly under my chair.
No one would think too highly of himself.
Through the screen window, from the living room, some noisy politician on the evening news would lecture Tom. He doesn’t know that Tom’s been asleep in his recliner for a while now.