I understand I can’t live in the past –
all protocols are digital and wide
(but shallow). Algorithmic lists are vast,
and poorly paid employees can’t decide.
But lately I feel prodded and harassed
with emails, passwords, policies supplied
by institutions claiming they protect me –
intrusive robots queuing to inspect me.
A half a billion packages
are transiting each day.
I guess it’s not surprising if
mine doesn’t find its way.
I share the garden with the sweetest slobs.
They’re young, and inattentive to the yard.
Considering their studies as their jobs,
they never weed or prune. It isn’t hard
to notice, but at 23 what mobs
the brain, what looms to populate the card
is radiating three feet from their eyes.
They sleep too deep to register sunrise.
My kids, my sibs, some grandkids took the quiz.
And I was shocked to learn my score appeared
more high than even I expected. ‘Tis
support for how I’ve always sported weird.
No treatment’s needed, but reactions fizz
in me – some locks of social clamor cleared.
A word has no affect on how I’m living –
it’s subtle, but I feel more self-forgiving.
Her car’s been totaled two times in a year,
but she’s a veteran, past 22,
so driving doesn’t trigger any fear,
but there are other passages that do.
She cannot swim; no vest or sea rescue
convinces her to plan an ocean cruise,
and as for riding BART or Muni – pooh –
she holds her fears too dear to disabuse.
I knew exams would be a challenge, so
I pre-rewarded yesterday: a meal
comprising food and friendship – eating slow
and talking fast – was just my kind of deal.
I have to sacrifice this morning’s glow
to eye exam – those drops have no appeal.
By 2 I’ll leave for dental prods and pokes.
At my age, such attention is no hoax.
I walk to BART the way I like it best,
long-striding with a mostly-empty mind.
Beneath my shirt I wear a weighted vest.
I savor work accomplished, not inclined
to re-employ as yet. My feet arrest
my forward motion – gratified, I find
a panorama beckoning my sight –
a land- and sky-scape caught in morning light.
Why can’t they see, and turn the no to yes?
The symptom isn’t lack of empathy.
Instead of dearth, the problem is excess.
Why can’t they see?
The theory that seems obvious to me
involves a toning down, a making less
of stimulation’s jarring quality.
For just as sounds can pummel and a mess
of glare assaults, the screaming whispered plea
is torture. I avert, and cannot guess
why can’t they see.
A weak back, brittle bones, and gum disease
all constitute amazements as I age.
I wasn’t predisposed to maladies
of mouth or spine, according to the gauge
that served me otherwise. I thought I knew
my body like I understand my mind.
But looking at conditions living threw
at me, perhaps my third eye’s kind of blind.
And just as I did not predict I’d wed
and bear the kids that led to progeny,
I never dreamed the others would be dead
by now, who shared the grand heredity.
Just two of six still stand, and one won’t rise
to stand. Today’s compounding my surprise.
My yard mates are abundant now – birds flock
to scavenge from the ground and browse the buds.
A dozen squirrels race on roof, and mock
my quietude with footfalls loud as thuds
(a tree gives easy access). Raccoon stock
is fat and gravid. Fruitfulness befloods.
I feel outnumbered here amid a surge,
as symptoms of spring energy emerge.
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