What’s empathy? I hear some people claim
preponderance but, really, what I see
is self-attendance by another name.
What’s empathy?
To understand oneself’s a quality
to cultivate and cherish. All the same,
for others it’s not sensitivity.
I don’t attend performances. That’s lame,
but fear of actor errors sets in me
discomfort overriding pleasure’s game.
What’s empathy?
As often as at dawn I feel my years,
and near-conclude I’ll nest at home all day,
my body after time and coffee veers
to stationary bike. Then yoga’s sway
betakes me, and intention soft-appears
to put on shoes and travel. While away
I gather hugs and sip a little wine.
I come home less fatigued in head and spine.
Becoming more diurnal every year,
I’m up at dawn and comatose by nine.
Accomplishing all morning, then I veer
to lassitude by 2 pm, my spine
and brain to recess aimed. And that’s been fine
a decade, but I’m contemplating change –
tonight I’ll write and ply ideas of mine,
and try a week or so at what feels strange.
The highlight of today I thought would be
a lunch date with a friend, a mile away.
I set out walking thinking I would see
her face and taste good food and we’d relay
the latest news on hormones, bones and knee.
But then I got the call of disarray –
she took a fall, by tripping I suppose.
The list may now include a broken nose.
Her letter to the editor was good
(she sent it to me though I didn’t ask).
Agreeing with its politics, I would
have slashed some words, if that had been my task.
But pausing in reply I realized should
improve me. Well I knew she’d want to bask
in compliment. I offered no revise,
but edited myself to typing wise.
It’s been a week since I could walk without
a destination specified to meet
a person or arrangement brought about
by social obligation. There were sweet
reunions, celebrations. With no doubt
I’m grateful, but I’m glad today my feet
are free to pace alone, where I can see
autumnal morning sun behind a tree.
When first I saw these bones there was a heart
on offer, and I snapped a fuzzy pic.
I didn’t note the bottle then as part
of the display, and I confused the site’s
address. I sought the scene anew, a dart
directional my only clue to where.
On Halloween I found again this art.
By then the organ’d vanished, and by click
of phone the liquor spurred conjecture start.
A little rain right now will suit my mood –
a little overcast, a dose of chill.
A shot of wet will rinse my solitude,
and coincide with flagging. I’m not ill,
but I could use some time that won’t include
a passle of beloveds, or a bill
of fare as rich as I’ve had recently.
The sky and I might clear by half past 3.
I’m not a good triangulation point.
I really don’t do subtext very well.
I have a role, but no one did anoint
me as a messenger. I cannot tell
them how to act. My counsel doesn’t spell
as magic, cure or oracle. I’ll teach
myself instead, and hope my thoughts impel
a modulation of familial speech.
Reducing carbs has certainly produced
increase in health, decrease in weight and girth.
The pleasure so derived – esteem now loosed –
is generating private bouts of mirth.
But here’s the lesson learned, for what it’s worth –
as true of GLP’s as “self-control” –
the user must continue, from the birth
of change to death, the way she chose to roll.
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