There used to be a skating rink downtown,
and industry on what would be our Main
Street if no one had named it for renown
historical, which now has no refrain.
There used to be some vibrancy, but brown
and gray are waxing as the pigments wane.
The avenue’s a microcosmic ill,
betokening a broader lack of will.
At nearly 3 pm, as one can see,
I aimed my vision heavenward, because
on ground were graduates and family,
and further out was myriad with flaws
of government and personality,
of characters without a moral clause.
Immediate appeared to me a wreck,
so I looked up while cradling my neck.
To meditation I directed me
the morning that I had to leave by 9.
I skipped the bike and set myself to be
an early walker, opting to assign
a meditation for humility.
And knowing I’d spend quite a chunk of time
awaiting eye dilation, I could see
no other use for dimness and a chair
than conscious breathing while I’m sitting there.
Nine minutes till the bus is due, to pick
me up and help me tote the groceries.
I have my phone of course – I now equip
my travels with it for emergencies.
But I’ve scant use for its amenities.
I watch the kids and wonder why they do
(I peek – they flit in app-y quantities).
I’ll use mine to record this pleasant view.
Two nights ago as I lay down to sleep,
I contemplated chores that I could do
the next day or the next, for each would keep –
immediate was no demand I knew.
Then rising early, I’d the mood for two
before my exercise, and then three more.
Without insistence now all jobs are through,
and I’ve a day ahead without a chore.
A train of thought has left the roundhouse now –
the pistons slowly push connecting rods
as someone reading journals ponders how
malfeasance rose so steadily, and nods,
connecting episodes. Did school allow,
by triggering contempt? What are the odds?
The train accelerates with fuel to burn,
but must take care to navigate this turn.
While I detest the wasp, that either stings
or bites, for it will dine on plants or meat,
and hate the sound inside that’s made by wings
of a mosquito near my bed or seat,
the source that often irks, of insect things,
upsetting solitude that should be sweet,
is buzzing from a fly that will not quit,
conveying nervous panic with its flit.
When both the kids were ordered to the shrink
because of misbehavior school-detected,
the first psychologists they came to think
moronic and dishonest. We expected
much better then we found, and soon rejected
the ones who self-described as “special friend,”
the ever-sympathetic and affected.
It’s rare to find who will not condescend.
Rereading what I wrote when he was born
and till he left our home, I see how sweet
he was before preschool. They set to warn
us then of angry fits, when he’d defeat
their socializing systems with his scorn,
rejecting time-outs like an obsolete
response. His sole regret was getting caught,
and squeezed by institutions, we were fraught.
When I was 5 and guided by a nurse,
escorting me upstairs for surgery,
and taking me confused to something worse,
she forward-bent, with palm upon her knee
and asked me how I was, addressing me
by name resembling mine but not correct.
I loathed her posture and activity.
“She’s stupid and a fake,” I recollect.
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