The final day of Twenty Twenty-four
the weather here was sunny, crisp, and clear.
My house was sound, my body not too sore –
repair and restoration work was near.
My doors and windows would not rot. My fear
of knee arthritis was abating fast.
My place and I seemed able for the year
ahead, as much as for the one just passed.
It felt so fine I didn’t mind at all
the effort spent to nurture knee and spine,
which took to twinging after that near-fall.
It felt so fine.
I lavished 40 minutes to entwine
my arms in hug and let my sinews sprawl.
My breathing seemed to make my skull-space shine.
Two blankets warmed. With feet against the wall,
some anti-gravity relief was mine.
The comfort sent my senses into thrall,
it felt so fine.
A light that has no purpose I can see,
a signal that provides no fact to me,
igniting nothing periodically,
for 30 days so far (historically),
offed after 4, today.
A Wordle I each morning set to break,
with guesses that try vowels, so I take
an average 4 attempts, for logic’s sake,
just happened on my starting word, to make
me win in 1, today.
The left knee says it needs a rest at least,
complaining constantly the last 3 days.
It’s often tentative, but pain’s increased
of late – if fortunate, it’s just a phase
to be repaired by time and lazy ways.
The middle toe I stubbed is purple, sore,
and left, from favoring that knee. Age flays
indeed, but I’m aboard and wanting more.
I used to justify addictive lapse
by focusing on some convenient stress:
obnoxious kids; a thankless job perhaps;
an obstacle to peace or happiness.
The fact is, if I wanted to indulge
in too much food, or pot, or nicotine,
excuses weren’t hiding. To divulge
the truth, external drives were never keen.
So when I see one falling back to vice,
and watch his mate accuse herself of fail-
ing to assess the triggers that entice,
I shake my head at psychobabble’s flail.
The loved one isn’t dumb – he easy found
the formula for quicksand, where he drowned.
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.
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