I hope the strike has ended when next week
I post this little stanza of eight lines.
Here’s wishing teachers get most things they seek,
and there’s a pause to hearing parent whines.
The issues aren’t puzzling or unique;
the kids are only missing Valentines.
The time’s long passed for fairness. Equity
ignored metastasizes steadily.
I’ve always liked my solitude, it’s true,
but I’ve my room and nothing much forbids
me spending time with others – 2, 2, 2 –
my parents once, my brothers, and my kids.
I have relationships that do me good,
and maybe that’s why I don’t want a mate
the way some girlfriends tell me that I should –
I tried that more than twice and learned I hate
frustrated more than lonely; it’s no fun.
The friends who nag are actually bereft
of family: from death, M’s down to one;
P hurt her kin and now there’s nothing left.
Each stands alone and seeks a mate, to mark
her room and vanquish goblins in the dark.
I understand that recall isn’t true,
and witnesses are infamously wrong,
so will it matter all that much to you
if I’m inventive when I write your song?
I promise to be credible, endue
your deeds with motivation clear and strong.
I feel compelled to make the story sound,
and running plot to sense, see what I found?
I woke too early but I stayed in bed.
From 5 to 6, I hunkered down some more.
I planned the daily tasks and thought instead
of dreaming, clocked the light through window door,
and then let floor plans cycle through my head
from houses I inhabited before.
Much more than once, I’ve populated naps
with habitat schematics and old maps.
If I postponed a project’s origin
until I had the perfect starting phrase
and outline too, I never would begin.
Instead I start, and as the work displays,
it triggers gears that mesh and move within –
emotion lubricates, idea conveys
attention to momentum’s certain speed
and slowly surely sentences proceed.
Presented with 6 eggs a week ago,
farm-laid and then conveyed by family,
the motivation in me starts to grow
to use them in frittata. I can see
here cheese and spinach, and some broccoli,
but needing onion I walk to the store.
I buy ten things yet I forget the key –
the goal’s an onion. I must walk some more.
Eleven spoons I pilfered over years
of monthly lunches with two business friends.
I had no use for them and it appears
I won’t employ them for ingestive ends.
I think the tabs were mine – my conscience clears
with certainty my tipping made amends.
Reviewing, explanation? Pale defiance
was driven by disdain for their compliance.
Succeeding 15 days of black-and-white,
when paths were clear and absent shades of gray,
and vacillation didn’t nudge despite
uncertain moments and a somber sway,
I turned to sleep last night with appetite
for solitude I’ll satisfy today.
We did the needful; now I look within
to personal endeavors, and begin.
I’m zoning out of late, on couch and chair,
adrift in dream for moments, out of bed,
replaying voices from Intensive Care,
acknowledging delirium instead
of dialogue that’s accurate and spare.
I’m carting crazed affection in my head.
It’s not unpleasant and it’s feeling apt.
I like this harkening from when I’ve napped.
She made my day, I murmured as I turned.
I know the stranger heard me anyway.
She’d volunteered a comment and I learned
she made my day.
She spoke. I thanked. And she went on to say,
“It’s easy when it’s true.” I’m not concerned
with fact, but feeling bubbled in her sway.
I wondered if the compliment was earned.
For days the mirror showed my aspect gray.
But with her words unsettled gloom adjourned.
She made my day.
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