Singing, “This I’ll be the day that I die.”

Shivering as I eat my chicken meal, which is hot but doesn’t keep me from being too cold, I take my book to the park and sit in my truck where the sun would keep me warm. The girl who took my order asked me about the book, but how do you describe Henry Miller taking about sex in front of a line. She told me it was ok she was over 18, but I couldn’t find the words, so I said it was good but too graphic for most.
I hadn’t shivered like that in years, but my teeth were chattering, so I wasn’t about to be another collapse. I’d eaten all my meal, but it felt like nothing, and I wondered how well they cooked that chicken because maybe I was dying of salmonella, but that’d take hours. Instead I reason I was recovering my sanity from lack of sleep. I wasn’t behaving more these days, just getting up on time. So what did that make me? Henry talked about his job, and it reminded me I had one, one that was counting to see if I was late, though no one knew when I left. I came back sat down, and thought about the midget and her dog that Henry was describing, nothing new today, except they should let me go home early, but they never do.