I’ll buy five items in the local store
and tote them home by paces, rail, and street.
Replenishing a shelf and crisper drawer,
my eating options then will be complete
for weekend time and even one day more.
It’s probable I’ll still take to my feet,
but need to purchase won’t impose or draw
on me, as I consider days of awe.
I thought on marriage several months ago.
I’m not the only one who senses he
romances an idea and chemistry
attracts him yet, a bit. But he won’t throw
himself in risk or speak what he might know.
Instead he’ll just esteem our history,
mythologize a tale of him and me,
and hide himself within a Paulist show.
I wish he’d clear his vision, but in truth
I never could consent. I’ll do without.
My ever friend is trustworthy and bright,
but I had cause to check him in our youth.
And though I never minded he’s devout,
I won’t espouse a humble acolyte.
At half past 7, as the heat wave broke,
I walked outside to compost coffee grounds.
What struck me to a standstill and awoke
attention was the sky. There were no bounds
except the rims of trees. Nobody spoke
to me and morning birds refrained from sounds.
I fed on silent beauty, minute awe,
and momentary peace at what I saw.
Composing this September 9th, I’ll try
to mention other subjects than the heat.
Compared to elsewhere we’re so lucky, I
cannot complain when mild skips a beat,
and for three days we clock a season high.
But we don’t air condition – not replete
is insulation’s presence by our bay,
and, see? I wrote of heat wave anyway.
I recollect two travel dreams last night,
one featuring my mother, late-deceased
and out of character – upbeat and light
and heading to live entertainment (least
of likely happenings, with nothing right-
arranged). The second, local-set and east
of ocean, took me somewhere broke and strange.
I reeled them both as harbingers of change.
On Labor Day the special project set
by self for self without external nudge,
was straightening the rug until it met
the edges of the oaken floor. To budge
its plush expanse required me to get
the loveseat off and trunk aside. I judge
it level, even, after my beau geste.
That labor merited a hefty rest.
I extra-credit exercised. With vest
strapped on I ambulated to the store.
I even wore a tractor cap. It’s best,
the doctor says: less hair these days means more
exposure to UV. I worked my chest
and legs as well, till entering my door,
I disengaged the gear with some relief,
surprised my hair did not sustain hat-grief.
He wrote a paper on mythology,
two pages full, in cursive, near correct.
His style and his methodology
were more mature than even I expect.
The spelling hardly needed to be checked.
The comments he inserted were himself.
I’m gratified our interests intersect.
I bought my favorite reference for his shelf.
If I collect the stanzas labeled “aging,”
I’ll have a chapbook I don’t want to read.
For though I’m daily surveying and gauging
the physical conditions that impede
my customary habits, and the bleed
of dashing brain discernment, it’s enough
to jot and type and edit. I don’t need
review. Do you? Who wants to see this stuff?
One hundred minutes passed since I arose
from bed, and in that time of gentle move
I drank two mugs of coffee and I chose
to sit and solve six puzzles. I improve
as if I’ve shed ten years. Some vigor flows.
I’m jotting this as memo. Surely you’ve
experienced the renaissance that dawns
at dawn, alleviating creaks and yawns?
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