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.
The problem’s clear: no sooner did they test
than autism could everywhere appear,
in crania where no one might have guessed.
The problem’s clear.
And in that diagnostic atmosphere,
with ADHD recently assessed,
there suddenly seemed cases far and near.
Admittedly our situation’s stressed.
It’s blame on old white men I start to hear.
The dire mounts and truth must be confessed:
the problem’s clear.
Awakened in the cottage where I spend
most Friday nights, abruptly jarred alert,
I read the warning on my phone, discerned
the time, and promptly heard another blurt
of urgency, to move avoiding hurt,
to where the family was massed inside.
But I brewed coffee ere I trod the dirt,
my morning thirst perversely fueling pride.
It took me 60 years to comprehend
that if I’m finding irksome, chronically,
the deeds or talk of someone I call friend,
the bothered person isn’t only me.
It’s egotistical when I pretend
that only I can sense. Discrepancy
takes two (at least). An interaction’s plus.
It’s wiser to perceive than make a fuss.
An empty can that once held CO 2
took out my favorite mug 3 days ago.
I knocked it off my countertop, and threw
it accidentally into the sink.
I self-chastised, but nothing I could do
reversed the chip in porcelain that could harm
my lip, my sponge, my morning coffee view.
Accepting loss, I soon resolved to go
a mile south and purchase something new.
One night last week I thought the wind was rain.
The thrum on skylights woke me up at 2.
Four hours later, through my window pane,
I marveled at the scatter, clutter, strew
upon my deck, amid my yard: a slew
of naked twigs that cluttered wood and dirt,
without a leaf to moderate the view.
A block away were marks of bigger hurt.
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