Aware tomorrow’s full from dawn to night,
and glad I walked my errands yesterday,
I’ll fill with words and food and bath the light:
prepare some posts and meals, and scrape away
old skin from face and dander from my gray.
I’ll dress in sweats, and rest for spans at home.
I’ll move but log few steps, and I’ll delay
all acts except those listed in this poem.
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.
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