Sunday

Getting to be (by) myself.

Sunday. But for the murmuring water cycling gently through the cat drinking fountain and the ticking of the clock, it is quiet in the house. A jet, muffled, descends southward. Seagulls yelp. My gut aches, inflamed, angry and obstinate, demanding only perfect foods, as yet undefined. Ida the Cat perches on the window sill looking out toward the avenue w…