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.
The April morning sunshine lights the leaves
above expanding ferns a soft chartreuse,
while someone taking in the sight receives
a serenade of bees just shaken loose
from winter somnolence, and all refuse
from die-back’s covered now in vernal green.
The garden gives the witness scant excuse
to stay inside, when out is new and clean.
As blooming as the gardens now appear,
abundantly in flower, giving birth
to blossoms in the trees this time of year
and petals framed in green on rich damp earth,
there’s also air that nasal-tastes so clear,
and from the birds of flighty song no dearth.
But sometimes what most captivates my eye
are clouds arrayed upon the morning sky.
I read the science fiction years ago,
before the robots took the name “AI,”
when Isaac Asimov thought to bestow
protective laws (at least he made a try).
I didn’t note till recently the lie
that vanity’d be aped by a machine.
But really, why should God or robots vie
to spoil for more hits of dopamine?
I’ve long heard women dress for other girls.
That may be true (I note), but then again,
when guys decide to act like studs or churls,
it’s possible they’re doing it for men.
I wonder why your pride in genuine
creative bent and nonconformist thought
does not divert you from stale origin,
away from crude examples assholes taught.
A nervous voyager, I always rise
before it’s necessary, so instead
of tapping my adrenaline supplies
I get to practice patience in my head.
Already packed, no puzzles to surprise,
lunch made and linens taken off the bed,
I’m sitting in a blue upholstered chair,
and contemplating calmness in the air.
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