I saw six ants, one skunk and two raccoons
the morning after drizzle, breeze and rain.
Our weather here is nothing like monsoons,
but we don’t tend to work on how things drain.
So standing water is a common bane –
mosquito pools and rodent bathing sites.
I don’t mind skunks, but raccoons could refrain
from shitting on my roof these recent nights.
I go to work on Tuesday for no pay –
the final phase in ending a career
I didn’t plan, that spanned until today
a half a century, it does appear.
I put in half a day as volunteer,
including lunch (good aliment and wine,
and company congenial and dear),
content with how matured this job of mine.
Eschewing news, disdaining gossip sites,
and solving all the daily puzzles fast
(the algorithm varies those delights –
today’s were simply easy), I’ve a vast
amount of time before this day has passed –
short office work and writing is in view,
but if some knowledge is to be amassed,
I’m hoping to acquire it from you.
Abundant wine last Saturday, although
accompanied by lavish food and chat,
resulted in an interrupted flow
of recollection. Maybe worse than that,
a headache bowed my neck and didn’t go
away until I slept and drank a vat
of water. It should come as no surprise
how age takes longer to metabolize.
When I was 12 or so, I liked the pool,
adored the beach, and flourished at the lake.
In southern California, after school,
on weekends, and each summer we would take
to water, moving till our limbs were loose,
our bodies empty, and we felt so clean
inside, like nothing else could reproduce
sensation lost since I was 17.
Six decades later, I bathe every day –
I’m not a musty elder like my friends.
Internal is another thing – the way
to that allayed condition comprehends
elimination – I won’t be a grump,
as long as I can consummate a dump.
The random chat last night was, in a word,
a contest, for the longest piece of speech.
He offered up the “antidis…” he heard
at school (3rd grade) that peers will ever teach.
I told him that and tech terms are absurd,
and shared with him the longest English reach.
The winner of our playful conversation
was Floccinaucinihilipilification.
At half past 5 I rose to start the heat.
That’s something that I’ve never done before.
But age has made me shiver, and the feet
of February walk with even more
chill temperature than usual. We’re poor
withstanding cold; our windows are not storm.
I stand to wrap in layers this old core,
and wheel my limbs, attempting to get warm.
Succeeding minor stressors, things improved.
The stink of rotting rodent was suppressed.
Anxiety a loved one marked, that moved
him to feel overwhelmed, no longer messed
his attitude. The rain was not recessed
but transit ran. And though the final block
I walked in drenching storm, I felt well-blessed
to enter home and heat, and throw my lock.
I wish he had less stress and she less grief,
but there’s not much for either I can do –
they’re grown and have to manage their relief.
I start to fret, and then admit that’s true.
If I were dead, they’d find their avenues
without my words, deserving their own pain
or boon. I love them and I let them choose;
I’ll focus on a pause in daily rain.
I’m casting back to 43 years old,
the age my youngest is, and as I look
around for recollections lines might hold,
I feel I need some substance for the hook.
I may not find good memories to book
unless my research yields what I forget.
It’s early yet – hope will not be forsook
before I rise to toss a wider net.
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