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.
It isn’t perfect here, although it’s good.
The atmosphere’s not dark enough at night.
So much illuminates the neighborhood,
the view’s not midnight-blue through my skylight.
At 3 a.m. no stars beguile my sight;
I probably could read without a lamp.
An eyemask doesn’t suit – the strap’s too tight.
I shut my lids and stretch to ease a cramp.
I quietly supported several folks,
who worked in quantity but unlike me.
Reacting to the expectations (pokes)
of culture, gender, peers and family,
they put in time. I didn’t garner thanks
as much as latent, passive argument.
I took unfair in stride. I don’t resent
what never pierced the armor on my flanks.
So it was not unusual, last week,
to nudge a sib aside who won’t prevail.
I promised not to yell. “Just let me speak,”
I murmured, facing clerical travail.
I spoke with certain calm. I wasn’t rude.
I did the job and reap self-gratitude.
She will forget, and doesn’t moderate
her habits, so the added years abet
the problem – missing things and running late.
She will forget.
I don’t want her to feel she’s in my debt,
so I try subtly to accommodate.
It hurts to see her muddled or upset.
And sometimes I succeed – her goofs abate.
I nudge her to appointments, deadlines met,
but all too often comes to pass a date
she will forget.
Although my parents picked at me, and mocked
my oddities, and disciplined me first
(I was the oldest), and were sometimes shocked
or charmed the way I spoke, and thought I nursed
my shrimp as prized beyond how each enjoys
a favorite, though for years I haven’t heard
them say I’d better supervise the boys,
I understand the power in that word.
So silently I’ve watched my brothers age,
and now and then I subtly intervene.
I don’t believe they notice, and no wage
is paid me to perform, but I feel clean
at heart and proud to tend the sibling cord.
Caressing self-approval’s my reward.
For decades I confess admitting doubt
about my use of creativity
to put to words my tales and verse, without
experiencing grief and tragedy,
addiction, or profound insanity,
for I’ve been blessed with health and loving stuff.
Last week, I came upon epiphany –
perhaps neurodivergence is enough.
Although I don’t sleep well, and I’m now cold
in 70 degrees, without the sun,
and seem to bruise if breeze attacks my hold
on keys or bottle-tops, I am not done.
My skin is crepe-like creased – I know I’m old,
yet I’ve but two prescriptions. I’ve begun
to witness others, battling cancer’s curse
or losing words. I could be so much worse.
Another member of the family
expired yesterday. We weren’t close
except in age – some years past 70 –
related through our kids. She lost her mind
before she gave up functionality,
but even that forsook her over time.
It’s been two years since she’d remember me,
but loss is sobering. I’m varicose
with sadness for her orphaned progeny.
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