“You claim you hunger to be seen, but I’m
exactly opposite,” she said to me.
“You want your loves to understand in time
the inner you, but I’d prefer to be
assessed as I portray, like I’m on prime
TV, and rock a role.” But honestly?
Her quibbles are a habit unrelieved;
I question if this last should be believed.
They say write what you know, and seem to mean
refer to your experience to plot
a narrative, but who could set a scene
with fatal poison taken? No one’s got
to suicide to write the details right.
Some knowledge is required that can come
from research and attention. That is quite
the better way, to expertise, for some.
So don’t recuse yourself from a dispute
about how kids can best be loved and reared,
because you opted not to bear the cute
imposers, or a fertile aim was speared
by circumstance. If thoughtful and with care,
your viewpoint carries value – give it air.
Three years of correspondence I retained
of traded histories and promised sex,
that crashed in realization. I disdained
continuation, but among the wrecks
of revelation I preserved a pile
of printouts that might generate a work
of future fiction. Tucked into a file,
I kept the tracks of Fluffy and the jerk.
Last week I dumped them in the box to shred.
But second-thinking, first I skimmed them all.
Confronting memories of me, instead
of foolishness, I saved some, to recall
true bits misplaced. I googled then, and sighed,
discovering five years ago, he died.
In coming home last Sunday on the train,
I surfaced to the street to find the hue
of sun shade sails that stretch above the main
pedestrian paved area is new.
Where vibrant red once overspread my view,
the fabric’s aqua now, as if to bring
impressions toned like Caribbean blue,
perhaps insinuating hints of spring.
The buds are obviously immature,
containing promises of heavy weight.
Their petals tight as onion skin are sure
to grow apart, send perfume toward the gate,
and lose deep pink for solid yellow lure
to bees and butterflies – such is their fate.
Their growth is cellular and existential,
and now they dazzle me with their potential.
Of course no feelings last, but I’ll confess
I feel invincible today, and fortified.
I weathered years of water leakage stress,
and months’ intrusion that I asked inside.
It’s all behind me now. There’s a recess
from nagging worries and the bills that pried
more funds away than were my first intent.
Today I think the time and cash well-spent.
At 4 p.m. on Thursday afternoon,
I watched the man dismantling the shop
he’d set up on my deck, and knew that soon
the work would be complete and he would stop
all noise and interruption. I could drop
the need to dress, the obstacles to rest.
The job went well – I rate him at the top,
but 4-plus months it took to look its best.
The future will of course proceed to shrink,
by natural operation and my aim.
Of late I look to next year, and I think
I’ll still be occupied. I’ll change my game;
I’ll turn away from office work, unlink
my Wednesday visits. Not the same
will be my weeks, but stimuli enough
will rise from winnowing through my old stuff.
I know we should have cut the roses back,
but somehow fall and winter got away
from us, with travel, task, and other lack
of time – in fact, the garden looked okay.
The door and window projects had their sway,
so now the plant has budded ends on all
its limbs – we cannot trim that birth display!
Instead I’ll bide behind a thorny wall.
I’ve lived here nearly 18 years, and kept
most papers I have filed or received.
I tolerate no clutter and I’ve swept,
but folders should have long ago been heaved.
I’ll spend an hour weekly. I’m adept
enough to fill one banker’s box, relieved
to move a mountain even though I dread it,
to where old office mates will duly shred it.
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