Cut flowers haven’t charmed me for a while;
they seem an offering that’s bound to die.
Perhaps it’s how she lifted them – that smile
of affection, toddler-voicing “hi,”
but I was glad to take them into my
small place. I may be entering a phase
more gracious, less judgmental. So I try
to pick a windowsill, and find a vase.
That 20 minute morning walk, I tried
to notice where I went and felt, instead
of concentrating on ideas I spied
reviewing journal entries. In my head
I wandered, while each 8-pound weighted tread
was made amid air springtime soft and sweet.
I caught a train and rode it as I read,
and only focused rising to the street.
She chose the father with some care, and yet
it’s evident he came with temper flaws.
For decades she has chosen to forget
some coldness and obtuseness, giving pause
in early scenes, but the genetic set
was never viewed as dominant, because
she favored nurture over nature then,
and sought to guide. She sees the traits again.
I’ve streamed for years, confess it’s often Prime,
and now they’ve added ads I try to miss.
I see and sense some frames, and note that time
has little changed who pays to bust my bliss:
New cars and car insurance while I piss,
but drugs with crafted names are all the rage.
The promises and warnings make me hiss,
and signify how ill and scared we age.
An article was tossed last week at me,
as if an eavesdropper was paying heed
to current thoughts of biochemistry
and what to counter fragile I might need.
I gave the offered words attentive read,
and even after buffing them with salt,
they prompted questioning how to proceed:
the what-does-what; and maybe I should halt.
We didn’t mean it as a recall test.
I showed her mail postmarked in ‘69,
the subject a close friend of hers, distressed
by teenage kids. We watched her read each line,
but grasp no recollection to assign
those characters. We shifted then to seek
her memory of 50. She said “fine,”
but only of her 20’s would she speak.
I felt so bad 3 days ago, I feared
I’d have to cancel all my plans this week.
Exhausted and beset by something weird
I tried remaining calm, but I’m a freak
for worry, and my peace of mind was speared
by symptoms that I reckoned as unique.
It’s likely luck has spared me such before;
that’s my conclusion, now I’m ill no more.
At half past 6 I went downstairs, and moved
the switch to “Run” to run the water here.
For though the garden cannot be improved,
the soil I can see is looking sere.
I turn the system on this time each year,
and now I’ve checked it – far as I can tell,
amid the glut of green the 8 appear
to rise to programmed function very well.
On Friday/Saturday I felt unwell.
Discomfort was intestinal, so yes,
I had much pain and worry, truth to tell:
concerned my future’d altered I’ll confess.
I tried to be a patient patient, guess
at diet change and read from Web MD.
At 4 p.m. relief came, more than less,
from home and time, and not the pharmacy.
Of late, reviewing letters I once wrote,
and journal entries, early poems displayed,
I wonder why I saved them but I note
the personality they all conveyed.
Consistent and apparently self-made,
with language, logic, answering immersion,
the character’s complex like a cascade –
a cataract of parts that form one version.
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