The circumstance that makes this age so fine,
you say, is you can drop the social pose
and be yourself. But that’s no goal of mine.
I never could be other, and I chose
and labored to be truly seen. My line
is not achieving that, but what arose
for me is time to breathe and meditate –
a wealth of health and patience stirs of late.
With 7 C-notes, that’s how she repaid
me for 3 months of handling common bills.
But it’s been years since I engaged in trade
involving currency. To shop instills
the custom that the customer fulfills
a debt with card or smartphone. I’m too old
to want to buy black market bags or pills.
Street charity? A hundred can’t be doled…
The Wednesday visit pays a low return –
we’ve little time together, and it’s late
when I get home. I better answer yearn
to interact when we can activate
a weekend morning – cottage club’s our date
for hours playing, reading, loving time.
I cancelled Wednesday to recuperate,
and mark my homey comfort with this rhyme.
I don’t ignore the changes to my site.
I used to take on water through the brick
or on an oaken threshold. At the height
of rainy season, ants ran fast and bold
(I thought of flooded nest and swampy cold).
I didn’t want that structure to my east,
but it was built, by code and reg controlled.
It covers mud. It drains. My leaks decreased.
(I’m happily improved, if truth be told.)
We took our January birthday meal
a bay away and in a favorite place
from decades back. It still has its appeal –
though pricey, we can see each other’s face
and hear all words and greet the waiter’s grace
nostalgia-blissed. As well as normal gab
I plumbed her distant memories, to trace
old truth, while twirling pasta topped with crab.
Returning home from family once more,
I lock, I lower shade, I crank the chrome
to draw a bath to warm my chilly core.
Returning home.
Not too agoraphobic, my syndrome
is homing ever after I explore.
And like today, I say it in a poem.
It’s hackneyed. I’m a hermit. What a bore.
Yet this is recompense for every roam.
I’ll rest, but first assert how I adore
returning home.
Near ten days into Twenty Twenty-six
I finished with the circum-holidays.
The fetes were done, and down were candle wicks,
the birthdays celebrated, and the maze
of novelties were solved. I need no fix –
I’m feeling fine – I’m readying to blaze
a path projected to provoke me well.
Four weeks from now, I’ll learn what time will tell.
I used to think the barrier to prose
at length was lack of patience for the plot
proceeding at the pace it should. I chose
short forms instead, accepting what I’m not.
But as I edge toward days when I’ll compose
without a detailed outline, I’ve begot
the notions of humility and love,
for characters to pull in place of shove.
I cannot be more fortunate than this:
6 days alone at home, with spates of rain
outside. By emailed love and texted kiss
I was beset, with much to entertain.
In solitude I reveled, and the bliss
was more than I can fluently explain.
I venture out today. All rain has passed.
The sky is blue. My satisfaction’s vast.
My almost-week alone was very nice.
I slept so much at night I took no nap.
I didn’t overuse any device,
but typed and solved and screened enough. One app
I glad-deleted. Masked and bombed I thrice
indulged. Of restlessness I had no scrap,
while anger and ennui did not impose.
I’m willing to come back now, I suppose.
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