The footsteps overhead last night were loud,
as if an upstairs neighbor ogre-strode.
But there’s no place above my place – endowed
I am with this old cottage. My abode
is solo-set away from stairs or road;
when someone walks my roof, there’s little sound.
Those heavy thumps were paws in hunting mode –
raccoons that scale the drainwork from the ground.
I skidded on the wood outside my door
that forms a boardwalk to the entry gate.
Each winter, rain makes stepping there unsure –
plant-slick and weathered. I offset my weight
avoiding falling, swerving twice. My fate
is to now to wait for what that wrench has done.
Will groin or lumbar lapse to painful state?
Oh, here’s a twinge. This aging isn’t fun…
I’ve noticed shoes on sidewalks near the street –
a pair or more for passersby to take –
admired pairs on wires flung in neat
array that maybe advertisements make
(for parties? drugs? a way to night-compete?).
But last week on a stroll, the sight keepsake
was solo footwear – men’s – two different shoes
and blocks apart. I wonder why and whose?
She may consider you her closest friend.
Her go-to interlocutors are you
and most her life her sister. You contend
with her enthusiastic points of view,
her pacing judgments and her snap advice,
the blurts and cold assertions how to do
what she would, did or thinks. She isn’t nice –
although she means to act polite and kind,
her passions to proclaim emotions ice
your conversations, chilling heart and mind.
And though you’ve loved her and believe you will,
of late to open talk you’re not inclined.
Four days ago you opted not to spill
some issues that collected near your feet
like weights that drag your steps and pleasure-kill.
Refusing to invite her to mistreat
your ear with counsel neither earned nor sought,
you said you weren’t ready to accrete
your feelings into paragraphs. You thought
you’d sit with sad in silence for a spate.
She claimed she understood (she knew she ought).
Then yesterday she said her sister’s state
of late has been to want to call but not,
suggesting heartfelt confidence can wait.
Of course she understands, but not a lot.
That’s two-for-two who talking will suspend,
a gentle message bluster hasn’t got.
My favorite bomb will turn the water green,
but gifted with a dreidel shape, I chose
to drop it yesterday. (It wouldn’t mean
as much next week). Around my toes
and hips releasing blue, it fizzled clean
and marbled creamy white, and charmed my nose
with waves of myrrh and wafts of orange drop.
It melted spinning smoothly, like a top.
I dislike clutter, and I’m organized.
It’s rarely that I misplace any stuff.
So I was rattled searching and surprised
to ransack for an hour. Not enough,
I then found seeking online data tough,
addressing questions from my CPA.
I breathed to calm my tendency to huff;
I got the answers and I felt okay.
I wrote a little stanza yesterday
and meant to type it up today, but found
I couldn’t find it in the small array
of iPad, phone and mail. I looked around
my one room and at stuff I threw away,
and wondered if my memory’s still sound.
It took reviewing facts I sought last night
to catch what I misfiled, out of sight.
Disgruntled waking from an early dream
that fled like dust motes in the morning light,
I surveyed the personae in my scene,
and found near every character not right
or wrong exactly, but in some way quite
erratic now, less affable than then.
Though no one’s near I’m ready to indict,
I’m longing not to gruntle once again.
Why are you friends? they queried recently.
Responding we go back so many years,
I said although we’re vastly different, we
have managed mutual respect. Some tears
we’ve shed in anger – we sustained a breach
at least two times, but found a pathway back.
And both of us have had some friendships leach
away by death and relocation’s track.
It’s like I can’t afford to turn away.
Except I asked myself: what would I lose
without her in my life? I have to say
there’s boredom, hurt, and no things that amuse.
It’s decades since I found her any fun.
I think it’s time to recognize I’m done.
The kids view Xmas as a holiday
that’s less religious than it’s cultural.
In fact they would ignore the creche display,
church service, carol lyrics and the pull
toward gifting first exampled by three kings.
We gave them history but they rebut –
no miracles except what buying brings
to merchants (whose front doors are this day shut).
Their attitude has stunned us. Do they feel
that Easter is a tribute to a hare?
We grant excess consumption, but we reel
at how assessment morphs. We don’t declare
their view is universal yet we doubt
the young folk know what Christmas is about.
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
 | Caleb Cheruiyot on No Blocks |
| sputterpub on For Now |
Sputterpub's Blog 