washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook br out again br I write from the bed br as I did last br year. br will see the doctor, br Monday. br "yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head- br aches and my back br hurts." br "are you drinking?" he will ask. br "are you getting your br exercise, your br vitamins?" br I think that I am just ill br with life, the same stale yet br fluctuating br factors. br even at the track br I watch the horses run by br and it seems br meaningless. br I leave early after buying tickets on the br remaining races. br "taking off?" asks the motel br clerk. br "yes, it's boring," br I tell him. br "If you think it's boring br out there," he tells me, "you oughta be br back here." br so here I am br propped up against my pillows br again br just an old guy br just an old writer br with a yellow br notebook. br something is br walking across the br floor br toward br me. br oh, it's just br my cat br this br time.