I need to walk outside most every day.
That’s why I chose a climate that affords
activity. Beneath blue sky or gray
I walked for years to travel or commute,
to shop or meet or visit where I may.
But months ago I started sheltering;
my walks had no objective to convey.
Of late I move with nothing to walk toward,
and learn I’m only aimless half the way.
All creatures have to notice things that move,
and people are no different than the low.
Our species is impulsive too – we prove
it by the way we all feel boredom grow
when custom stills or culture stalls and sticks,
and interaction loses all intrigue.
That’s when we need a change, a spark to fix
the symptoms of emotional fatigue.
Abhorring lack of stimulus, we sink
amid the doldrums of dull weariness.
Escaping house arrest (as if we think
it’s safe) is our response to dreariness.
It seems all tactics must evolve, or dim
to meme fatigue and tepid acronym.
I walk for transportation and for health.
I guess I started doing so at 5.
I choose my residence where there’s a wealth
of walking avenues. I seem to thrive,
and I attribute that to daily moves
(as well as luck). I think my body proves
the case – my walking helps to manage stress,
to organize, to meditate, to bless.
Three months ago, I lost my walking goals,
all destinations taken from my days.
And though continuing home exercise,
no longer did I tread upon my soles.
A recent amble challenged me. “It pays
to walk,” my body said. My body’s wise.
I ambled Prince Street yesterday, a pack
of food upon my back, and looking down
I noticed names somebody chalked, of black
decedents – none who wanted this renown.
I read and said the names, and stepped aside
as if I were on holy ground. My heart
and head enlarged with grief that multiplied
with each succeeding name. That block is long,
but all its length beside my plodding pace
the chalking emphasized a grievous wrong –
so many killed: our legacy disgrace.
There’s work ahead – for rights and righting claims.
The time and chalk command I say their names.
For 90 days I dwelled in quiet here.
I mostly stayed at home like all of you.
We watched surrounding air and water clear.
We buzzed with nerves and heard the birds anew.
But now our house arrest is wearing thin.
We’re lacking facts but aren’t staying in.
Disease proceeds and ignorance destroys,
but we’re reopening and making noise.
The traffic hasn’t yet produced the crush
we dread ahead, but all around of late
are power sounds of home and yard repair.
No longer in a zone of beeper hush,
the chainsaws whined last night till nearly 8.
Now chipper grunts of grinding fill the air.
Rereading Austen’s works so frequently
(at least three times a decade since my first
exposure to her creativity),
I marvel at her words. She slakes my thirst
for verbal elegance, my lust for wit.
I often scan one sentence several times;
I turn a page not guessing what word’s next.
She’s gentle with her narrative, and primes
my head to put my hand to better text.
I start with “just this one,” and though I know
the story, I discover with surprise
I’m rapt at every climax. So I go
on reading, but I soon exhaust supplies.
She died so young! From few I must ingest
the influence with which Jane Austen blessed.
When I was young, I thought a lot was wrong
With me; I tried and failed conformity,
And came to like myself. To not belong
Turned out okay. But one normality
May be the death of me – my teeth were strong,
And seemed to grow and function perfectly.
But that was just a phase of false morale;
Last week I underwent a root canal.
I talked my theories over and again,
reiterating like somebody’s dad.
It never mattered how I lit, or when –
I talked my theories over and again,
with movement of my tongue and teeth or pen.
Attempts at self-suppression made me sad;
I talked my theories over and again,
reiterating like somebody’s dad.
I’m growing more political of late.
So rarely tempted to cooperate,
I seldom work with others very well,
but now that we are rocketing to hell
I’m hopeful like it’s 1968.
We’re shaky, but perhaps we can create
a different future and a fairer fate.
I want to live to hear what time will tell.
I’m growing more.
Beset by a barrage, beneath the weight
of viral load and idiots of great
venality, we’re gathering in fell
environments, amassing to expel
the ills we’re all too sick to tolerate.
I’m growing more.
I’m not surprised he’s ignorant and slow.
I quite expected the dishonesty,
the sluggish brain, the verbal poverty,
the treating life as if it were a show.
My shock is that you’re shocked – how can’t you know?
I’m not surprised.
I’m boggled that his party’s sunk so low.
I wish the media would act like me,
and filter out the gross brutality.
No matter what the measure, he’s below.
I’m not surprised.
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