Last week they hugged me with a sweet request:
Can we make brownies? was the eager ask.
(I overnight most Fridays, not as guest
but more a member – up for such a task).
We browsed 4 recipes and voted best
the one that would allow we 3 to bask
while cooking in the light of a cartoon –
nice projects on an autumn afternoon.
I’m teeming with well-merited fatigue.
I left my San Francisco bed at five,
and readied (doing puzzles) for the league
of love called Cottage Club. We always thrive
with Switch and iPad screens, and on intrigue
supplied by Dahl or Lewis. I revive
enough to journey home. I lock my lair,
and book in hand I take the napping chair.
We started choosing near a year ago
the way we’d celebrate her jubilee.
We tossed ideas for places to and fro;
across the pond we landed plans for three,
and added half a week in NYC
(forever fun and pausing on our way
back home). It’s getting close enough that we
are contemplating ventures for each day.
I wouldn’t write these stanzas, but what stuck
inside my busy head was strident-speak
by someone I’d admire if she’d tuck
away the vehemence and her technique
of loud opinionation. What the fuck
is gained by shooting down with a critique
a helpful phrase an expert to me spoke?
“Well, that’s one woman’s notion,” was her poke.
“You seem to have strong feelings,” I replied.
She stammered something then and took a beat.
The vehemence without a sputter died,
and her expression shifted to a sweet
acknowledgment she never meant the heat.
Did I unearth a clue? When she’s a bitch,
can I by parent-speaking trick-entreat
a testy cranky attitude to switch?
I caught these purple people with my phone
as I proceeded Tuesday on my way
to one of three appointments. T-shirts shone
and stature charmed. They seemed to all obey
the lead, and two attendants didn’t sway
their watch. Perhaps the strollers couldn’t catch
the house about to edge their steps. I may
have been the only witness to this match.
I’m channeling The Princess and The Pea.
Instead of bed, I’m sensing in my neck
an irritated spot that cautions me
to sniff not blow. It’s like a tiny speck
of incorrect two experts cannot see
or feel. I’ve had for years a movement check
left side, so maybe that relates to this.
Or it could just be more of agedness.
I had the unit cleaned two days ago.
It’s almost like I knew the air would chill.
Today the inside temperature – below
the 67 mark – did not until
late afternoon reach 70, although
I put the fireplace through morning drill.
This early cold is nothing I remember,
but I’m igniting fire in September.
It’s like a trope – “I’ve never been this age
before.” I say it often cause it’s true,
and though we’ve books and references to gauge
the drastic strokes and lapses that accrue,
I write about the minor stuff – a page
on aches or stuttered sleep, a journal through
diurnal slippage. I’ve a new intent –
collecting words addressing this descent.
September brings the Garden Cosmos up.
Unplanned or sown the lanky volunteer
emerges, shoots to height, and sprouts a cup
of purple that surrounds a central sphere
in split-pea hue bedecked with yellows. Near
the blooms the hummingbirds and bees are seen
in flit and flutter sipping autumn cheer,
a-frolic in a yard’s last gasp of green.
Concerned about his health at 68,
for though he comes from hearty stock, he’s slow
to move beyond a dog walk from his gate
for 15 minutes out and back, I know
if he’d put effort into air, he’d grow
an exponential way away from death.
I hold his hands, and sit him straight, and show
him half a dozen ways to take a breath.
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