Although I wasn’t girly when a kid,
as only daughter I assumed I knew
my mother’s rings and things. She never hid
her stuff from me. And though she often threw
away her things (and mine), I had no clue
that something closeted or boxed or sacked
was lurking, till she pulled it out for you –
this pendant mini-coffer artifact.
I’m not sure why I find no mental blocks
when I survey inside. For I can spy
some body shame, but nothing recall locks.
I’m not sure why.
Somatic mishaps seemed outside of my
control, and as for teenage peerage mocks,
they ricocheted and never made me sigh
except with pity, watching someone box
herself. I recollect pain if I try,
replay it softly, fondly when it knocks.
I’m not sure why.
The work is needed, but it won’t be fun
to feel disruption for a month or more,
as hinges are removed, and one by one,
I have to do without a framed-glass door.
Until the reparations are all done,
I’ll have more noise and people than before
and after. Spending resources, I choose
to fix a wall of doors to better use.
My mother had no patience with my hair.
When I was only 7, someone chopped
it off too short to tangle or to snare.
I recollect dismay and shame that stopped
my freedom. So I seized control to wear
it, heard her hate it when I colored, cropped
or tried to tame it. Still, no matter what,
I’m happy when I get a good hair cut.
Detailing social friction in their set,
she sorted people geographically,
contending east coast natives ever get
their notions and emotions blatantly
declared, while westerners are more repressed
(polite or sensitive they’d self-describe).
But he conjectured how each one expressed
was owing to a hot or WASPy tribe.
Such demarcations do not serve the cause
of comprehending any argument.
The quiet souls, whose passions seen as flaws
are muted, stand like prey and can be bent
to charismatic will. That sad result
produces the success of every cult.
The waterproofing on the western face
is near completion now. I thought the plan
initially was simply to replace
some soggy sills, but talking to the man
my brother recommended, skillful, smart,
developed and expanded into new,
inside and out – almost a work of art
before the frame and trim and paint were through.
It’s looking lovely, and I don’t regret
the time and money spent to date, but now
I stand upon a threshold shot by wet,
and know it’s time to watch the man show how
he’ll do the job I needed even more:
replacing oaken sills beneath each door.
I didn’t note, returning home, a sight
inspiring me to aim and click my phone,
until I exited the train last night
and followed this appearance. I had grown
accustomed to street oddities all right,
but this was an array I’d never known.
It raised the questions why and how acquired,
and woke a witness who’d been drifting tired.
I walked through campus on the way to BART,
avoiding strikers to absorb new green
instead of chants. Once there, I stood apart
from others, and rode backwards when the screen
announced an 18 minute wait. My heart
at peace, my book in hand, and neither keen
nor somnolent, I slow-commuted west,
and savored traveling without a quest.
I passed the damage yesterday, and thought
it might serve as a prompt for micro verse.
A stanza on the little chaos brought
gratuitously now. An urban curse,
a tantrum, small destruction no one sought
and, to be sure, a crime that might be worse.
I woke today to disappointments (three) –
that shatter’s now a metaphor to me.
I had occasion, several days ago,
to walk four thousand steps to meet a friend,
enjoy a tasty lunch before the show,
and talk about some travel we intend
to make in seven months, although depend
on it – experience may intervene.
Bad health or politics could make us spend
our assets here. I’ll just record this scene.
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