At least it’s 3. There won’t be too much more,
but right now I’ve got sound insanity
as 2 nice fellows work to sand each door.
At least it’s 3.
They’re both precise and skilled, and I can see
their workmanship is capable for sure.
But this place now’s too small for them and me.
I get my silent mornings – that’s before
they start restoring ever noisily.
Their stop at 5 will grant what I implore.
At least it’s 3.
That Mom complains is seldom a surprise
to us who’ve watched her growing old so long,
and know the woman lives to criticize.
And as her hearing weekly dims, her strong
“Don’t mumble” is the opposite of wise;
it’s no big deal that attitude is wrong.
A generation younger, fretting too,
I’m shocked to hear “Don’t mumble” come from you.
A shot of how it looked a week before
this publication, as I wrote these lines,
shows detail of the damage to the door
I open least. For years I’ve seen the signs
of oak attacked by stormy water’s pour,
resisting caulk repair and tape confines.
The proper fix, I’m told, is full rebuild,
but by today this defect will be filled.
Three members of my City family
have birthdays, so I need to shift the date
of overnighting (twice) from normalcy
to novelty. And one who’s out of state
will mark his seventeenth. I want to be
attendant, and I plan to celebrate
a month from customary thrown askew,
with nearly daily calendar review.
I’m dwelling in a small construction zone.
I had to ask for it; I knew I should.
Although I always love to live alone,
I’m dwelling in a small construction zone.
Disrupted daily, trying not to groan,
the work that’s being done is looking good.
I’m dwelling in a small construction zone.
I had to ask for it; I knew I should.
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.
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