Arriving home at nearly noon, I read
a text that set our call for half past one.
Six hours earlier I rose from bed
(that’s not my own). Now me-time has begun.
I’ve aimed attention to my care instead
of any outer task. My bath is run,
and after soft immersion and a peel,
I’ll settle in to eat my favorite meal.
I woke to feel decrepit in two joints.
My left knee griped, and something in my wrist
(the left as well) objected when it points
up on the ulnar side. I made a fist
and rested some, and as the day anoints
me, as I write and pedal, I feel kissed
by the advance of morning warmth and light.
Three hours passed and now I’m nearly right.
Full body yoga was this morning’s choice –
a twenty-seven minute stretch and move.
With almost empty mind, I heard a voice
that recommended cooking to improve
the options for my dinners. I rejoice
today in solitude, as cool as you’ve
imagined me, as busy as I wish,
with all I need to make my favorite dish.
It made no sense to me, the way they claimed
it either was a lab leak or the site
where animals for food were vended, named
“wet market” in reporter lingo. Right
as life, I said it could be both. For might
an error in a lab permit relay
to crowding someplace near? What comes to light
is “amplify” instead of “start,” today.
The laurel leaves are lovely, but it’s best
to leave them on the branches or the ground.
They aren’t soft enough to offer rest
while yet you live. In truth, the wise have found,
while honoring the past, it’s no behest.
Without more innovation, we’ll be drowned
in tides nostalgic, brimming with felled trees,
bogged down and dammed by static histories.
I hate it when a fly comes in my room.
Yet I don’t want to murk my view with screens.
I took to closing doors to bar the zoom,
but August heat and dead air’s what that means.
A stranger commented – no fly convenes
within on purpose – they prefer outside.
Of late I open wide, enjoying scenes
and air where no fly chooses to abide.
Remembering how much my brother’s feet
repelled me, as I watch the grandkids spurn
a sibling’s trespass on their space – discrete
in limits – it’s not difficult to turn
to evolution’s rule. We’d risk effete
mutation if we interbred. We learn
with moody pheromones to seek elsewhere
the body with which we can safely pair.
I watched a show about the ultra-rich
engaged in and investing big to find
a longer life. And then I wondered which
rewards inspired such, and for what kind
they hungered? Why and what would scratch the itch?
Of their exploits no trophies come to mind
that merit admiration. It’s obscene
what some will pay for extra dopamine.
The movement of the hour hand defies
mammalian observation, just the same
as floral growth is hidden from our eyes.
For we evolved to play the hunting game,
reactive to attack but not too wise
about slow changes. That’s how aging came
on me – too soft and subtle to detect.
What I can’t see I’m learning to respect.
I’m paging through this blog a year a day
to find the date I finished posting prose.
I aim to lose the papers that display
old poetry cloud-clustered, for I chose
to edit most and repost anyway.
My strategy is to recycle those
originals. But I’m surprised to see
how long I went before all-poetry.
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