WIP

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.

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Eastward at 8

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.

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Westward at 3

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.

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A Little Breakage

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.

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For Now

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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Tepid

I cannot give the play a good report,
although I hear much media approved.
The stagecraft was impressive – just the sort
I like to see, but I was barely moved
by storyline that didn’t sense-distort,
but offered nothing novel that behooved.
The lunch and talk were good. I’m glad I went,
but hope that next time, time is better spent.

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These Kids Today…

If I were feeling critical, I might
condemn the way they misprioritized
their yesterday, when what would have been right
was more and early visit (I advised
consideration, never heard). Last night
some neighbors, even younger yet, surprised
me with their texted inability
to think. (But neither fault is harming me.)

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Remains

A poet pre-explained her suicide –
she lacked the will to edit any more.
That resonates a bit. If aging pried
my judgment off or my ability
to edit who I am, if when I tried
to modify my attitude I failed,
if change in brain condemned my thoughts to slide,
and took away my longing to explore,
I might launch plans to have me ossified.

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A Little Togetherness

Four hours mid last week I got to spend
with both the souls I loosed upon the earth.
They rarely share address or mood, and tend
to gift me with diversity since birth.
They’ve each acquired mates and kids they lend
to me to love and witness. Ever worth
ambivalence, humility, and will,
how fortunate that we are thriving still.

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Sensing the Slide

The last two calls, I sense a further drift
away from logic, sense, and memory.
She needs a prompt, but isn’t acting miffed
when I supply the cue or clue. So we
converse about not much. It seems to me
she’s slipping but she doesn’t note the pale.
Expected at this age, I hope I’ll be
aware, though pained, when it’s my turn to fail.

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