It’s just a store that came and thrived and died,
arising from a shop to catalogue
and brick-and-mortar, so identified
when business grows surmounting underdog
to eminence. It pleased. It satisfied
for years. I think it even had a blog.
It’s just a store. Some others have surpassed it.
But still, I never dreamed I would outlast it.
I’m paying extra for my airplane seat,
and our accommodations on the cruise,
while far below top deck or any suite,
are more deluxe than staterooms I would choose
before. Hotels and tours have good reviews,
and little complications are abating.
I’m pleased. I’m not imagining bad news,
and I’m enjoying months anticipating.
It took 9 days before I read results.
The blood draw was where I am used to go,
but multi-testing sometimes catapults
from lab to lab to lab, before we know
the metrics. Now 4 pages they bestow,
and little do the numbers mean to me.
I’ll have to wait for doctor-talk, although
I skim and mostly note normality.
Convinced it does me good to bear some weight,
well-balanced, over lower limbs and hips,
about to check a bag to add to freight
below the cabin, on some pleasure trips,
I need a carry-on. I contemplate
convertibles, but my opinion tips
away from wheels to luggage on my back.
I opt to buy an ergonomic pack.
So just as feeling bad has not endured
forever (yet), I know that being fine
will never form a constant. But I’m cured
right now of corporal complaint. No brine
was utilized, except I have assured
myself a daily nasal rinse at 9
is beneficial. I just want to say,
in ink, I’m feeling very good today.
The first dream had my brothers sitting near.
We’re in an airport, and my phone is dead.
My iPad too – initially my fear
was how to get a boarding pass. Time sped
and chaos mounted while I dashing pled
for aid from staff in uniforms of blue.
And then I started worrying instead,
how lacking both devices, I would do.
The second dream had me, as planned, at sea,
my travel pal aboard as well, but not
assigned to occupy the room with me.
(My cabin mates were boy with father, hot
but young). My friend complained: apparently
she missed the deal for wine (or she forgot).
Although I recollect them, nothing seems
an omen or a caution in these dreams.
They’re dining once a week now, and they cook
the dish her aging foster kid desires.
He watches kitchen shows, she reads a book,
selecting to avoid the use of fryers.
She says she has him listen, taste, and look –
she wants to teach him how the work inspires
a healthy motive, brain to gut to bone,
but when he’s there, she lets him ply his phone.
A friendship that’s endured for 50 years
is nothing she can easily discard.
Despite the boredom, recall perseveres,
her losses mount, and losing more is hard.
She’d miss the peeving if it disappears;
the slight offenses she can disregard.
And when she least expects it, something’s said
that indicates she’s known in heart and head.
I thought I’d write good books when I grow up.
I practiced but could not create a plot.
And when the stories started to show up
in mind, I was impatient and forgot
to let the climax build. I rushed and shot
the arc of story, wad-like, in the knee.
It took me years to realize I was not
cut out for prose. I write short poetry.
The meal was fabulous: the room a treat;
the service timing perfect; and the food?
Each course was palate-present and a meet
companion to the wine and talk. My mood
was light and loving, interaction sweet
but never cloying, sharp but nothing rude.
Of dinners I’ve enjoyed it may be best,
but it may take all weekend to digest.
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