I can’t remember when I’ve liked a crowd,
and street fairs may repel me most of all.
I don’t like saunters in the sun, and loud
effects from people cause my skin to crawl.
There’s insufficient shade. I don’t recall
occasions comfortable or worth the while.
I’m nervous and my spirit starts to fall,
as loneliness seeps in to stall my smile.
We cruised necropoli on Saturday.
A section of the city came to be
the area where mortuaries lay.
And when we chose to park and walked to see
some cryptic sections for this family
or that, amid old trees and plaques of stone,
we gentled into connectivity –
amid the dead we didn’t feel alone.
I came upon this butterfly today,
an insect not unusual to see
this time of year, in plants that flanked my way
perambulating to a treat for me.
I measured steps – 5,000 totally –
but this encounter happened halfway to
my destination. Psyche met psyche,
and took to heart a mariposan view.
This visit, moving air impresses me.
Although the calendar reads late July,
the temperature and the humidity
are mild. Through the leaves an azure sky
creates a bowl of clean. The weather’s dry
and steps are easy, bathed by gentle breeze.
The trails are clear. With happiness I sigh,
inhaling cool emissions from the trees.
She grew upset, and stood, and the dispute
was interrupted by her swift retreat.
She sought the porch while feeling destitute,
unheard, unseen, by those who should be sweet-
behaving after all she’s tried. Her heat
diminished in 5 minutes. But she knew
of choices she could put in play to meet
the moment, insufficient were the few.
This isn’t my first airplane flight you know,
and dozens have been out of SFO,
a specialist in finding many ways
to exculpate its regular delays.
A tardy cleaning crew? Give me a break.
A false alarm of fire in the tower?
I’ll need a cup of salt such news to take,
though all the while knowing I’ve no power.
There is no turbulence to justify
suspension of the service as we fly.
I’m shameless and unwilling to resign
myself to end this flight without more wine.
I skipped some weeks of regular review,
and wondered why until a day ago,
when I resumed the skim, and then I knew
ahead the task no longer has a flow.
I’ve jettisoned financials, and a slew
of letters – though I saved a few that show
biography. Now I’ve dispensed with those,
up next: to toss or edit my old prose.
It’s just a store that came and thrived and died,
arising from a shop to catalogue
and brick-and-mortar, so identified
when business grows surmounting underdog
to eminence. It pleased. It satisfied
for years. I think it even had a blog.
It’s just a store. Some others have surpassed it.
But still, I never dreamed I would outlast it.
I’m paying extra for my airplane seat,
and our accommodations on the cruise,
while far below top deck or any suite,
are more deluxe than staterooms I would choose
before. Hotels and tours have good reviews,
and little complications are abating.
I’m pleased. I’m not imagining bad news,
and I’m enjoying months anticipating.
It took 9 days before I read results.
The blood draw was where I am used to go,
but multi-testing sometimes catapults
from lab to lab to lab, before we know
the metrics. Now 4 pages they bestow,
and little do the numbers mean to me.
I’ll have to wait for doctor-talk, although
I skim and mostly note normality.
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