I have a little office here – the shed
across the deck – for bike and my PC,
to keep my files distant from my bed
and loveseat, where I rest and watch TV.
A while back, consenting it could be
repository for the tools he’d use
refurbishing four weathered doors for me,
I note removal now, and I enthuse.
A week ago this blossom greeted me,
when I glanced west and set the coffee pot
to brew my morning drink electrically.
Thus urged, I turned to see what I could spot
on trellis and beneath the leafing tree
that soon will fruit. As usual, my lot
is lush this time of year, and shot with bloom
embroidering the green outside my room.
They’re clearly not the phases of the moon –
these seven circles filled with black and white
in patterns. Walking Friday afternoon
I passed them from the sidewalk, on my right.
I double-taked and then I shot the sight,
backtracking out of shadow cast by me.
Proceeding on until the traffic light,
I didn’t parse the parkway strategy.
I’ve opened an exploratory quest
by comprehending I’m beyond the brink
of benchmarks in a standard screening test.
I’m gathering ideas and facts, to think
about – will I use bars or try a vest?
endure new shots or gulp a stirring drink?
Investigating foods and tabs and caps,
I’m mitigating to forestall collapse.
With every year of age I grow more chill –
the thermostat acquires a degree
for winter settings, now in force until
near May. I comprehend felinity –
I’m like a window cat who climbs to be
asleep in sunlight, afternoons adrape.
I’ve grown to love the scarf you knitted me –
a newfound warmth against my aging nape.
Accused of selfishness when I was 8,
which word was seconded and reinforced
maliciously, I tried at first debate,
and later by my actions to negate
the charge, which never had a base in fact.
The blamers weren’t folks I had endorsed –
they demonstrated neither brains nor tact,
and their complaining had no strong impact
on me. Still, after serving loved ones well,
I’m aiming to be selfish for a spell.
For 8 and 50 years I have enjoyed
black coffee in the morning, with no ill
effect. But currently I can’t avoid
admitting that 8 cups are overkill.
Of late a racing heart has me annoyed,
and my left hand when typing is unstill.
My stomach isn’t bothered, but I mean
to try my mornings now with less caffeine.
Proceeding for these many weeks, at last
I see the indications he’ll complete
a project that expanded to a vast
disruption of my window light, my sweet
and solitary habits. Never fast,
but honest and reliable and neat,
he’ll soon apply the thresholds and the stain,
and focus on the snags that still remain.
I tried and failed at spontaneity.
No hippie when the trend was everywhere
around me, anxious when I couldn’t see
tomorrow’s path, I didn’t ever share
excitement at surprise, impulsive glee.
I love anticipation. It’s like three
events – idea, a thrilling wait, and yay.
So tell me please the things you plan today.
Misplacing several surnames recently,
and losing till a prompt “formaldehyde,”
I won’t ignore the signs entirely.
My thoughts have lost some cutting edge. Inside
is not as hale as it’s assumed to be
when I’m away from mirrors, and abide
with expectations set five decades back.
I’ll face the wind – I’m on an other tack.
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