When we arrived, she wasn’t feeling well.
Her attitude was obstinate and stressed.
Before she started carping we could tell,
although we knew it wasn’t lack of rest.
She spoke and acted like she was depressed.
We had to give the restaurant a shove,
but wine and food and talk brought out her best.
She forehead-touched us both goodbye, with love.
The guy insulted me while dining out,
although he knew the meal would be my treat.
He spoke as if I weren’t there, no doubt
deluded that his words were wise and neat.
I didn’t quibble and I didn’t shout.
That blowhard never learned to be discreet.
Although his brain was stricken years ago,
his witlessness has always laid him low.
Two pages left, and then I’ll have to find
another little notebook I can take
with me, and transiting express the kind
of ideas that meanderings half-bake:
impressions I will cook on open mind
and temper as I rest from muscle ache.
I used to toss 3 dozen sheets away,
but now I always have some more to say.
I doubt it was the pipeline yesterday;
we hiked that metal grate with lengthened stride.
It must have been the morning lunge and sway,
from warrior to grounding knee. I sighed
but still I carried on with postured pride;
it seemed as if I could have done some more.
But maybe I’ve committed gluticide,
for now both cheeks are feeling deeply sore.
A strange attack of equanimity
besets me now, although I understand
my choice of words is not what it should be,
except the case is wonderfully unplanned.
I don’t know if I’m glad deservedly,
or if it’s simple aging – did I land
on happiness by accident? Not true:
the same condition isn’t gracing you.
It isn’t that I had a task to do
this afternoon. At home I would have read
and napped. I had no projects to pursue,
but sure I’d have preferred it there instead
of sitting in the airport when time bled
as slow as sludge retarding me today.
I linger uninspired, while my head
tolls near 200 minutes of delay.
Employing him for seven jobs this year,
of course I grew acquainted with his brain.
The man for months was all too often here,
exhibiting cognition I’d complain
about, if I were to unleash a word
like overtalkative, obsessed, or vain.
But that feels futile and somewhat absurd –
I’d rather sing an alternate refrain.
He’s not dishonest, and he has some skill,
but carts an odd perspective with his stuff.
An issue’s never his fault, and he will
keep finding he can’t sort his time enough.
He failed to plan or listen well to me.
I turned him down and pocketed my key.
Post-surgical and feeling little pain
(discomfort in his posture probably,
exceeded by relief that in the main
it went so well he knows that he will be
soon able to resume activity),
and disinhibited by poppy’s kin,
he speaks his mind and closely questions me
on matters of his youth and origin.
Earth and Heart alike
comprise the same 5 letters,
but so does Hater.
“Well, actually,” he says, and it’s the bane
of someone who adores him naturally,
but can’t abide to hear the kid’s refrain:
“Well, actually.”
He’s only 8 but often factually
correct. And that he’s trying to mansplain
is only entertaining you and me.
I watch him tip his father to inane
annoyance, and I marvel. Can this be?
His peers and years will teach him to abstain
well, actually.
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