A strange attack of equanimity
besets me now, although I understand
my choice of words is not what it should be,
except the case is wonderfully unplanned.
I don’t know if I’m glad deservedly,
or if it’s simple aging – did I land
on happiness by accident? Not true:
the same condition isn’t gracing you.
It isn’t that I had a task to do
this afternoon. At home I would have read
and napped. I had no projects to pursue,
but sure I’d have preferred it there instead
of sitting in the airport when time bled
as slow as sludge retarding me today.
I linger uninspired, while my head
tolls near 200 minutes of delay.
Employing him for seven jobs this year,
of course I grew acquainted with his brain.
The man for months was all too often here,
exhibiting cognition I’d complain
about, if I were to unleash a word
like overtalkative, obsessed, or vain.
But that feels futile and somewhat absurd –
I’d rather sing an alternate refrain.
He’s not dishonest, and he has some skill,
but carts an odd perspective with his stuff.
An issue’s never his fault, and he will
keep finding he can’t sort his time enough.
He failed to plan or listen well to me.
I turned him down and pocketed my key.
Post-surgical and feeling little pain
(discomfort in his posture probably,
exceeded by relief that in the main
it went so well he knows that he will be
soon able to resume activity),
and disinhibited by poppy’s kin,
he speaks his mind and closely questions me
on matters of his youth and origin.
Earth and Heart alike
comprise the same 5 letters,
but so does Hater.
“Well, actually,” he says, and it’s the bane
of someone who adores him naturally,
but can’t abide to hear the kid’s refrain:
“Well, actually.”
He’s only 8 but often factually
correct. And that he’s trying to mansplain
is only entertaining you and me.
I watch him tip his father to inane
annoyance, and I marvel. Can this be?
His peers and years will teach him to abstain
well, actually.
The PC got a little ill this week.
It suddenly desisted to connect
to Internet. The problem seemed unique;
I tried all resolutions you’d expect.
Apparently I need a new technique.
But daily posts I’d rather not neglect,
so I am limping, wireless and slow,
and (big surprise) I’m learning as I go.
Perhaps it’s that I’m used to flights alone,
or maybe I’ve not noted how annoyed
I’ve been by geriatric hum and groan,
but seldom have I separateness enjoyed
as much as now: a flit to Germany,
my eyes on words, three glasses now deployed
in near two hours, solitarily.
Does everyone annoy me? That’s not good…
Concluding that it really may be me
instead of others, thinking that I should
assess my inmost personality,
and list the ways I irk my neighborhood,
I plan to set that challenge presently.
But first I’ll shun complaints and false flamboyance,
to revel in more intimate annoyance.
We cruise the Garonne exiting Bordeaux,
through water brackish from the salty tides.
The dogs ashore are barking as we flow
as smooth as satin, for the vessel glides
well-stablilized. The wind has ceased to blow.
With all aboard each passenger abides
in lounge or stateroom, spa, boutique or bar,
our venture to the ocean nothing far.
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