Living with No Earthquake Valve

My cottage sits behind a shingled box
that holds four separate units. They all share
a gas line but my own’s alone. When shocks
from work around their basement (to repair
the drainage) caused the earthquake valve to trip,
I understood why heaters didn’t flame,
why stoves refused, hot water fell to zip –
their gas was off, the safety valve to blame.

I opted not to so protect my line,
and more than once I’ve seconded that choice.
By present hand or absent luck I’m fine
(unless/until) – more often I rejoice
that I decide to live with risky bits.
Statistically, my resolution fits.

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Morning Sights While Walking

The first remarkable: an ailing mouse,
mid-sidewalk, all a-twitch, a grounding sight;
then doors with labels at the firehouse,
read Medic, Truck, and Engine, left to right;
and third I saw the shoes, 6 pair, upright
amid the weeds adjacent to the street.
Such were the views the morning brought to light,
before my eyes, around my striding feet.

(Huitain)

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Best Guess

Does this post-nasal drip portend a cold?
(The kids I hug have recently been well.)
Or could it be the start of Covid’s hold?
(I’m negative but it’s too soon to tell.)
I woke at 3 to feeling choked with phlegm,
and didn’t screen a dream till 5 a.m.
And I was hale and hearty yesterday –
a harbinger, sometimes, of health’s decay…

I have a theory, and I hope it’s right.
I’m clearly senior now, reacting more
profoundly to the garden pollens, spore
and dust. It’s not so odd to wake at night
when one has lived 10 years beyond three score.
I’ll nasal rinse. I’m really not that sore.

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A Soft Spot

A week ago, while reading in my chair,
the vernal sunshine beckoned me to start
the ceiling fan, and open to warm air
the door of glass beside me. Looking down
I noticed withered bugs or dust motes there.
I took a cloth and swept them off the wood.
My index finger pressed the threshold where
it meets the frame. It didn’t fall apart,
but it depressed, rain-sodden, begging care.

(Magic 9)

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The Decline of BART

I used to ride BART to the city and back
four work days or more every week,
preferring the last car, where crowding was slack,
employing an end seat technique,
enjoying my privacy, able to view
whose ride was proceeding near mine.
But that was the scene then. It’s now been a few
years I’ve not commuted. Decline
is apparent. The last car is soiled. Some seats
are dismantled and cushions are torn.
It’s used as a bedroom and toilet – defeats
and raggedy garments are worn.
Avoiding all seats near the end’s now suggested,
unless I want travel with senses molested.

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Heat & Fire

The photograph’s from April 21st.
A morning shot, the blaze remote-controlled.
The chill of dawn had thoroughly reversed,
and forecasts showed an end to waking cold.
A month of Spring had already been tolled,
but California’s calendar diverts
from elsewhere norms – the time has come to fold
away the wool and kindle blaze alerts.

(Huitain)

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Resistance Training

The challenge is to certainly decide
to rest an ailing area again.
It’s quite improved since yesterday. I’d ride
my stationary bike, if I were ten
years younger, like I felt last week inside.
But now is here and otherwise than then.
Tomorrow I expect to feel less old,
for one more day, restrained and self-controlled.

(Ottava Rima)

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Back Care

I think I can ease this though I’m over seventy-three,
in spite of the fact that they told me there isn’t a fix.
The sad diagnosis the doctor depicted for me
goes back to a summer of pain in Two Thousand and Six.
I then learned some postures and stretches in weeks of PT,
respecting my left lumbar hernia, nursing my discs.
It’s hurting of late so I’m heeding the speed of my moves,
reminded to baby the spot till my status improves.

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Mom’s Almost-Fall

She didn’t fall, exactly – more a slide,
slow-motion and against the idling car,
until she gently met the asphalt. Pride
dictated her denial, but by far
it was the softest topple. Sure we are
relieved we saw no injury. We held
her and uprighted her, without a jar,
escorting her upstairs in fact unfelled.

(Huitain)

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Weird Quiet

The quiet’s weird, when what we have in mind
are floods of Spring that flow from snow that neared
or passed recorded history. I find
the quiet’s weird.

They plastered pictures when the drifts appeared.
The pack’s too deep, but news is deaf and blind
to threat so imminent it needs be feared.

Response should be adopted that’s designed
to mitigate the melt that must be cleared
before the gyves of icicles unbind.
The quiet’s weird.

(Roundel)

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