Convinced it does me good to bear some weight,
well-balanced, over lower limbs and hips,
about to check a bag to add to freight
below the cabin, on some pleasure trips,
I need a carry-on. I contemplate
convertibles, but my opinion tips
away from wheels to luggage on my back.
I opt to buy an ergonomic pack.
So just as feeling bad has not endured
forever (yet), I know that being fine
will never form a constant. But I’m cured
right now of corporal complaint. No brine
was utilized, except I have assured
myself a daily nasal rinse at 9
is beneficial. I just want to say,
in ink, I’m feeling very good today.
The first dream had my brothers sitting near.
We’re in an airport, and my phone is dead.
My iPad too – initially my fear
was how to get a boarding pass. Time sped
and chaos mounted while I dashing pled
for aid from staff in uniforms of blue.
And then I started worrying instead,
how lacking both devices, I would do.
The second dream had me, as planned, at sea,
my travel pal aboard as well, but not
assigned to occupy the room with me.
(My cabin mates were boy with father, hot
but young). My friend complained: apparently
she missed the deal for wine (or she forgot).
Although I recollect them, nothing seems
an omen or a caution in these dreams.
They’re dining once a week now, and they cook
the dish her aging foster kid desires.
He watches kitchen shows, she reads a book,
selecting to avoid the use of fryers.
She says she has him listen, taste, and look –
she wants to teach him how the work inspires
a healthy motive, brain to gut to bone,
but when he’s there, she lets him ply his phone.
A friendship that’s endured for 50 years
is nothing she can easily discard.
Despite the boredom, recall perseveres,
her losses mount, and losing more is hard.
She’d miss the peeving if it disappears;
the slight offenses she can disregard.
And when she least expects it, something’s said
that indicates she’s known in heart and head.
I thought I’d write good books when I grow up.
I practiced but could not create a plot.
And when the stories started to show up
in mind, I was impatient and forgot
to let the climax build. I rushed and shot
the arc of story, wad-like, in the knee.
It took me years to realize I was not
cut out for prose. I write short poetry.
The meal was fabulous: the room a treat;
the service timing perfect; and the food?
Each course was palate-present and a meet
companion to the wine and talk. My mood
was light and loving, interaction sweet
but never cloying, sharp but nothing rude.
Of dinners I’ve enjoyed it may be best,
but it may take all weekend to digest.
Outside the skylights each day of the week
I had a view like this, and often noise.
The former roofers lacked the right technique,
and bankrupted. My neighbor now employs
a local crew to make the roof not leak.
They’re nearly finished. Soon what now destroys
my customary peaceful atmosphere
will leaving reestablish silence here.
Asserting that a story humbly told
about oneself is surer to succeed,
she narrated her anecdote but rolled
the end to pride about her fitness. We’d
a walk ahead to which each had agreed,
and after she rejected extra weight,
we set forth and, in minutes, slowed our speed,
in need to deficit-accommodate.
Like coming home when I’ve been tasked away,
embracing peace and savoring the quaint
array of charms these cubic feet convey,
I’m reveling in absence of constraint.
I had to bind myself, until today,
in disciplines not worthy of complaint,
but just enough obnoxious that I’m spun
to deep appreciation now they’re done.
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
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| sputterpub on No Blocks |
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| sputterpub on For Now |
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