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.
She leaves each shower condiment ajar.
That risks a spill at sea or may dilute
the contents, but I’m opting not to spar.
What good would reformation constitute?
Reminding her to flush would not go far.
Requesting no increase in heat? I’m mute.
It isn’t that I’m shy. There’d be no gain.
I simply jot to ventilate disdain.
The weather has been cooler than expected.
The menu is a challenge to resist.
Some flaws in the companion are detected,
and naturally some hominess is missed.
But nothing fundamental’s in a twist:
I have no pains; I’m sleeping well enough.
I feel a little growth, away from list
and habit, unaccompanied by stuff.
I’m sure I must annoy her in a way
or two, but I don’t evidence a mood
of testiness, and though I can convey
fatigue with face, I doubt I’m ever screwed
in scowl. I don’t balk at attitude –
I hardly even note it when it’s coming.
I sometimes state. And I miss solitude.
But I will never irritate with humming.
The walks are interesting; I’ve liked each scene.
The food is various and sleep’s okay.
I’m loving the departure from routine –
I spend time otherwise, and every day
has different irks and merits to convey.
The weather is remarkably like home;
the water colors match my sea and bay.
So far I am content to drift and roam.
We must have crossed the river seven times,
aboard the On/Off bus and then apace.
Although we didn’t witness any crimes,
we noticed gangs of tourists stuffing face
and clogging every vantage, every place,
restricting the advancement of our roam
with photos and no evidence of grace,
at least as ugly as the fools back home.
Do you remember 50 years ago,
when SNL was funny, and we thought
we’d change the world with humor? Did we grow
unsubtle and unwise as decades brought
nostalgia, and we lost the will to know
the space between created and what’s bought?
We made a sorry story, sorry us,
who always meant to generate good fuss.
In years the span’s exceeding 55,
since I first felt the agony of gas.
And from that time, I’ve managed to survive
a few attacks until the toxic pass
occurred. In general, I seem to thrive —
I’m comforted the issue is no mass.
Some trigger eggs today, and family,
took near 4,000 steps to remedy.
Five days before I left, I had no theme
to talk about, no subject to discuss.
I focused on my plans and tried to beam
some calm inside, resisting any fuss
of deadlines, limitations, or extreme
preoccupation, letting no words muss
my musing, sensing scenes will be imbibed
that on return can be word-circumscribed.
It’s just an online test, but it was sent
to me by one who knows a thing or two
of neuroscience. Clearly it’s not meant
to data-mine or sell a point of view.
Results are in, and now it’s evident
that how I self-describe’s precisely true.
I seldom tried to hide how I appeared.
My favorite adjective was always weird.
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