I seldom catch a ride above the bay.
My normal route is underneath, on BART.
But recently, I rode the bridge. The day
was bright and as the sun began to start
to sink among a planar cloud array,
the solar underlighting mimicked smart
design of UFO, it seemed to me,
that’s poorly caught in this photography.
I ought to be a pessimist, and yet
my serotonin levels must be high.
I’ve never been depressed, and blue moods get
brief tenancy in me. Oh I can cry
at tragedy, and worries may beset
that loved ones won’t prevail at what they try.
But hopefulness in me won’t dim or quit,
perhaps impelled to be Mom’s opposite.
An office day and then a meal with Mom,
succeeded by this trek across the bay
(with three legs), now I’m stretching to stay calm –
for after travel, there’s a cost to pay
above the fare and food, in timing’s flay.
I’ll follow with exquisite City meal –
one I don’t wish to cancel or delay.
Along with tax on vigor, there’s appeal.
No sooner am I home than I depart –
a scanty sixteen hours, half in bed,
are all I get before engagements start,
and what ensues are five days out instead
of that for which I yearn. But I won’t dread
the interruptions – they’re for love and food.
I’ll gird my mind, align my spine and head,
and gather to regain my solitude.
Today I travel home, by car to plane
to train to bus, and then a little more –
I’ll walk perhaps two blocks and I’ll obtain
the sanctuary that’s inside my door.
I’ll carry dirty clothes and the refrain
of fellowship with family, before
I settle into privacy and peace,
and let my pace for half a day decrease.
This daily poetry can’t all be great,
though I condition for integrity.
More often than a piece to celebrate,
it’s used to store minutia about me.
My current mood or some activity
I wish to recollect will float this boat.
I’m quietly enjoying victory,
implying, lest these lines appear to gloat.
I sat beside her in the restaurant,
engaging with my patience at a max
through maze of menu choosing what she’d want,
though knowing she’d complain at the attacks
of too much food or noise. The woman lacks
most hearing, and cognition’s inward-turned.
I tried but couldn’t help her to relax;
from me the pranayama won’t be learned.
The circumstance that makes this age so fine,
you say, is you can drop the social pose
and be yourself. But that’s no goal of mine.
I never could be other, and I chose
and labored to be truly seen. My line
is not achieving that, but what arose
for me is time to breathe and meditate –
a wealth of health and patience stirs of late.
With 7 C-notes, that’s how she repaid
me for 3 months of handling common bills.
But it’s been years since I engaged in trade
involving currency. To shop instills
the custom that the customer fulfills
a debt with card or smartphone. I’m too old
to want to buy black market bags or pills.
Street charity? A hundred can’t be doled…
The Wednesday visit pays a low return –
we’ve little time together, and it’s late
when I get home. I better answer yearn
to interact when we can activate
a weekend morning – cottage club’s our date
for hours playing, reading, loving time.
I cancelled Wednesday to recuperate,
and mark my homey comfort with this rhyme.
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