Nine hundred thirty days would pass, from when
the lockdown was initiated here
to testing positive myself, and then
retreating into solo atmosphere.
My arms are closed, and won’t expand again
until the little Covid test is clear.
I hoped I might forever dodge this flu —
nine hundred days have taught me what to do.
(Ottava Rima)
The good news is my Covid’s not severe.
The bad is I still have to isolate.
And yesterday the gardener worked back here,
and as he used his shears to amputate
wisteria that shot above the gate,
he cut the cable for my internet.
I made a call. They said I have to wait
for negative results. I feel beset.
(Huitain)
I noticed yesterday a dearth of pep.
I pushed through morning exercise but felt
no better, no relief. With staggered step
I stood and surveyed me, and then I dealt
with diagnosis — did a Covid test,
and read the negative. Okay, but hark —
I took my temperature and was impressed
at three degrees above my normal mark.
With fever I feel chills and lassitude.
I robed and folded on my favorite chair.
I cosseted myself, my attitude
attentive and not going anywhere.
Unchanged today, I figured I would give
another test, and now it’s positive.
The day has come to put away my gear.
I always knew with luck I would succumb
to age, and now the time to stop is here.
The day has come.
I smoked so much when I was careless young,
and into middle age, and for a year
or ten too long (my choices were that dumb).
I went too far. My cannabis career
was what I should have long retreated from.
I learn of late too late to be austere.
The day has come.
(Roundel)
You start them cold or let them warm in air.
You poke a hole in each, or maybe not.
You put the eggs in water, or you spare
them till it’s seething, simmering and hot.
Attempting to maintain the heat you got,
perhaps you then contend with cracks as well,
a blooming white that ribbons in the pot.
And finally you try removing shell.
(Huitain)
The ego strokes for which you lust
are gossamer at best.
They’ll scatter light as cotton dust
and clutter up your nest.
A testimonial can blur
assessment of yourself.
Awards will tarnish and confer
congestion on your shelf.
The finest judge of you is you,
to sanction or commend.
Self-validation is your due.
Now get to work, my friend.
It wasn’t that I rated being smart.
You never had to rally to combat
a prejudice. You took too much to heart.
It wasn’t that.
The fact is I’m attracted to eclat,
but IQ doesn’t have to play a part —
a boring interaction leaves me flat.
I think we got distracted from the start,
conflating high intelligence with chat
about a subject gripping as Descartes.
It wasn’t that.
(Roundel)
The longer I’m alive, the more I know
the quality I value most of all.
It isn’t seeking love or leisure’s slow
procession, and I’m not in money’s thrall.
I treasure courtesy. What makes me glow
is thoughtfulness, consideration. Maul
my time with rudeness and I’ll swiftly go.
What I describe as culture’s benefit
is smooth, and not concerned with etiquette.
I don’t even like him but that’s no excuse to stay mute.
I’ll fantasize good conversations together instead.
Reality often can pale and leave ears destitute,
so I will continue our dialogue inside my head.
For that’s where he asks me the questions about my repute,
when I can describe where my private experience led.
So thank you but no, I do not want a dinner with him.
I’ll bide where I’m living and talk to myself till I’m dim.
Not talented enough for affectation.
Not smart enough to be so arrogant.
I’m sorry (not) for this evaluation,
but that’s the gotcha concept that I meant.
My phrasing is exaggerated, bent
to grab attention to this shining fact:
that talent has a clear and clean intent,
and real intelligence displays with tact.
(Huitain)
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