Her letter to the editor was good
(she sent it to me though I didn’t ask).
Agreeing with its politics, I would
have slashed some words, if that had been my task.
But pausing in reply I realized should
improve me. Well I knew she’d want to bask
in compliment. I offered no revise,
but edited myself to typing wise.
It’s been a week since I could walk without
a destination specified to meet
a person or arrangement brought about
by social obligation. There were sweet
reunions, celebrations. With no doubt
I’m grateful, but I’m glad today my feet
are free to pace alone, where I can see
autumnal morning sun behind a tree.
When first I saw these bones there was a heart
on offer, and I snapped a fuzzy pic.
I didn’t note the bottle then as part
of the display, and I confused the site’s
address. I sought the scene anew, a dart
directional my only clue to where.
On Halloween I found again this art.
By then the organ’d vanished, and by click
of phone the liquor spurred conjecture start.
A little rain right now will suit my mood –
a little overcast, a dose of chill.
A shot of wet will rinse my solitude,
and coincide with flagging. I’m not ill,
but I could use some time that won’t include
a passle of beloveds, or a bill
of fare as rich as I’ve had recently.
The sky and I might clear by half past 3.
I’m not a good triangulation point.
I really don’t do subtext very well.
I have a role, but no one did anoint
me as a messenger. I cannot tell
them how to act. My counsel doesn’t spell
as magic, cure or oracle. I’ll teach
myself instead, and hope my thoughts impel
a modulation of familial speech.
Reducing carbs has certainly produced
increase in health, decrease in weight and girth.
The pleasure so derived – esteem now loosed –
is generating private bouts of mirth.
But here’s the lesson learned, for what it’s worth –
as true of GLP’s as “self-control” –
the user must continue, from the birth
of change to death, the way she chose to roll.
You comment you can be yourself with me.
I took those words to heart like a bouquet.
I watered them for hours mentally,
and as they blossomed, feel the urge to say:
“My friend, your mirror’s tarnished, if you see
an image that looks other than okay.
You’re not desilvered. If I may be bold,
you’ve sterling qualities, more good than gold.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” she said again,
a phrase I’ve borne and failed to understand
lifelong. (I recollect I heard it when
attempting to express emotions fanned
by friend or school). Before age 9 or 10
I learned she scorned my poetry; she planned
a life as tactical for me as hers.
Rejecting her examples honed my spurs.
October morning walk to H’s place,
while taking in the Halloween decor,
inhabiting the here-and-now, in case
I need to be alert for something more,
I’m ready to submit this aging face
to unguents luxurious and pure,
and grateful for the weather nearly warm.
Next time (December) I’ll contend with storm.
Why stay alive when nothing prospers you?
When you’re no longer able to disperse
your energy in mundane tasks you threw
upon your list; or pluck from out your purse
the coins you sought to save to spend on few;
when you engage refusal and rehearse
four petulant complaints of nothing new?
Why wake this week, to demonstrate no tact
and hurt the hearts with whom you interact?
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