He made me play the Pokemon tutorial last night
when other games would surely be preferred.
The cards were stacked in order so the play’d proceed just right;
for this free dealing would have been absurd.
By contrast Uno could have been a relative delight –
we three’d be happier had it occurred.
But which activity is not the grist.
To play with them’s the act that can’t be missed.
Some days ago she mentioned she can’t rise
from floor to upright confidently now.
She wobbles. And although her trainer tries
providing ways or means, it isn’t how
it used to be. Her body won’t allow
what she remembers we could do back then.
I rise hands-free to stand, in silence bow,
and gratified, I make the move again.
Wasn’t there something I wanted to write?
Maybe if so I forgot.
Seems I received dreaming scenes all last night.
Questing back now? Maybe not.
Wasn’t there something I wanted to say?
Often I harbor a lot.
Possibly I will be quiet today.
That’s all I have now to jot.
The contrast was so sharp, I can’t ignore
sensations I collected those 2 days.
On Saturday I opted to explore
on shaded grass some mortuary ways.
At Sunday’s street fair there was so much more
to take in – people, music, sale displays.
The first was comfort gentle and impressive.
The other felt obnoxiously aggressive.
Reporting to some loved ones facts I heard
that may apply but need to percolate,
and then of relatives bestowing word,
the hours served to overstimulate.
With insufficient rest, I rose to play
with children: sweet but tiring, no dispute
but lots of volume. Toting love my stay
then ended, and I started my commute.
Two-thirds of that proceeded smoothly, till
I surfaced for the final leg, the bus.
Some crime occurred and cops arrived to fill
three times the normal minutes with their fuss.
At last I was released and I could flee
to home, to find I couldn’t find my key.
Unruly Behavior Can Ruin a Ride.
I spotted the sign Saturday.
I pulled out my phone and shot what I espied –
good dactyls – then went on my way.
I wanted a topic for Sunday, and thought
I couldn’t do better than this.
The syllables sang to me, gifted, unsought –
ignoring them I’d be remiss.
It took me time to fall asleep last night.
My tender throat inspired mortal thought,
and talk about emotional insight
and mysteries of medicine had brought
disturbed considerations into light.
I didn’t feel exactly overwrought,
but comfort in the bed eluded me
until the clock read some time after 3.
Five households occupy this one address.
We share the water service, and today
a plumber will shut off the main access.
I don’t know when the interrupt will stay
my water use; I suffer pre-distress.
Deliberately I shuffle tasks, delay
what’s waterless till early afternoon.
I wouldn’t have done well on Herbert’s Dune.
It shouldn’t irritate me very much,
but sloppy use of language hurts my mood.
I read “more than fair share,” regarding such
misfortunes as a chronic lack of food,
surplus of grief, and tragedies that touch
the soul attacking peace in attitude.
Of course a lengthy life contains a share
of bad, but there’s no quantity that’s fair.
We came upon him crying on the couch,
his posture slumping forward and his face
hair-hidden. We turned walking to a crouch
around his curving frame, to strong-embrace
our adolescent, murmur comfort, place
good words in air, and confidence-assign.
We lit with love and nearly missed the trace –
he sits like a canary in this mine.
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