Coffee pot   It’s hard to write anything approaching an essay on a workday morning. I  can bang out a column for work — during the Legislature, for instance — but that’s with a  newspaper deadline looming. Nearing 64, though, I am still sharp on other scores and  against some of them I measure my races with age. Knocking one of my heart pill bottles from the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard, I can still catch it with the other hand before it hits the counter. By heft only at the kitchen water tap, I unerringly fill the coffee pot to the 10-cup mark. Pumping iron never has been my cup of tea. Meanwhile, my Aussie buddy and I must be two of the laziest and happiest guys in Placitas.  He’s content to nap while I slake my brain with French roast before our morning walkabout.  (141)                                           Cooper on bed

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