Congested traffic Friday afternoon
was neighbor-notable at half past 2.
My amble was at normal pace, but soon
I overtook 4 dozen cars. A slew
of drivers changed their course by yaw and skew,
but I proceeded happy on concrete.
I never passed the cause of clog, but knew
the liberty of unobstructed feet.
A chasm yawns between two bosom friends
that history and loyalty can’t span.
One focuses on memory, intends
to recollect correctly, with a plan
for clarity. The other always spends
her stamina on feeling. Neither can
repair a bridge as footings shake apart –
attempts cause ache in brain and pain in heart.
The trip was good – vacations always prove
how beneficial is a change of scene,
a variance in how I daily move,
a welcome stirring break from all routine.
But time adjustment time, and jogs between
descendant dens, have kept me on the roam.
At last five weeks have passed, and now I mean
to savor many days alone, at home.
The two old white guys on the plane near me
assumed that I would yield whatever space
they wanted, though they each moved mindlessly
and neither seemed to have a thoughtful face.
But maybe that’s inaccurate – I see
such lack of focus, every time and place.
Entitled rudeness may not have been meant
as much as dreary absence of intent.
When we arrived, she wasn’t feeling well.
Her attitude was obstinate and stressed.
Before she started carping we could tell,
although we knew it wasn’t lack of rest.
She spoke and acted like she was depressed.
We had to give the restaurant a shove,
but wine and food and talk brought out her best.
She forehead-touched us both goodbye, with love.
The guy insulted me while dining out,
although he knew the meal would be my treat.
He spoke as if I weren’t there, no doubt
deluded that his words were wise and neat.
I didn’t quibble and I didn’t shout.
That blowhard never learned to be discreet.
Although his brain was stricken years ago,
his witlessness has always laid him low.
Two pages left, and then I’ll have to find
another little notebook I can take
with me, and transiting express the kind
of ideas that meanderings half-bake:
impressions I will cook on open mind
and temper as I rest from muscle ache.
I used to toss 3 dozen sheets away,
but now I always have some more to say.
I doubt it was the pipeline yesterday;
we hiked that metal grate with lengthened stride.
It must have been the morning lunge and sway,
from warrior to grounding knee. I sighed
but still I carried on with postured pride;
it seemed as if I could have done some more.
But maybe I’ve committed gluticide,
for now both cheeks are feeling deeply sore.
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.
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