A Memorial Day cook-out's left me in a mood.  Over at my brother's house I feel a bit like a walking-disaster-area.  The smoke alarm goes off when I cook a burger.  The dog seems confused by my throwing the ball for a little bit then heading back inside.  There are no onions here, only small amounts of designer olive oil.  I brought my own rice and quinoa, spinach.  Don't like his California wine, preferring simple country wines, Languedoc.  Sausages for breakfast in the iron skillet, to let settle, then get out the Windex for the droplets of grease along the stove counter.  Boil water to pour and swirl in the cast iron pan, then wipe with a paper towel.  Throw the ball a few more times to the dog, careful to throw it so that she won't rip the lawn up with a lunge.  I cook in batches, so there will be something to eat later on, a sandwich to warm up in the stove at work at the end of the night.

The voice of Larkin echoes in the head, 'think of being them.'  That's the task of mornings, to turn over failures, it seems.  The day gets better as you go on.