An edge of irritation’s lurking now.
Perhaps I’ve been too patient recently.
Six days away, among those I allow
a lot of latitude, my energy
invested in attending carefully
to people passionate and needing more
than effort earns or luck bestows. I see
500 miles ahead my own front door.
En route to home, I wonder what I’ll find.
Will bins have been retrieved and hose returned?
Will he I hired have begun defined
procedures to restore what I have learned
needs fixing or replacement, now consigned
to expertise I lack? Sure I’m concerned,
but nothing so disruptive will there be,
to steal home benefits away from me.
In Portland on a Saturday, there’s time
to settle into longer yoga, for
there aren’t California kids to climb
on me with energy and love galore.
Away from home and every daily chore,
around my oldest (for the day unwired),
there’s leisure to enjoy positions more,
and re-deploy techniques to feel inspired.
I miss my chrysalis, she seemed to say,
retreating to her room or deeper yet,
into her closet-bed, to spend the day
(again) with all the comfort she can get.
This person not a child, not adult,
no longer male but neither female yet,
awaiting pharmaceutical result,
appareled for concealment sensing threat,
needs something other than provided now
and then, when symptoms rose that were ignored.
Evaluation may have shown some how
to nurture and impel the child toward
trajectory appropriate and fine,
instead of sneaking comfort food and wine.
Embracing inconvenience as a mode
of transiting life’s paths and avenues
is nothing popular, but paves a road
with vignettes I would never think to choose.
In truth it isn’t work I would unload
but daily grinding, which produces blues.
It’s said a woman’s work is never done –
it’s seldom challenging and rarely fun.
I really don’t want testimonials
or compliments. I don’t need your advice
to guide me how to take what never thrills
my heart, which you have proffered more than twice.
No more do I desire prompts from you
or urging to acknowledge graciously
a lot of praise. My earnest point of view
includes evaluation aimed at me.
For I conclude I’m critically correct,
assessing poetry and written art,
and so I know my own is fairly good,
I’m able to observe how I connect,
and know when I’m performing well and smart.
So please don’t plus or minus me with should.
For decades every cold progressed the same –
Day 1 dry throat, and then a load of snot,
resulting in a lasting cough, with name
bronchitis (wracking, shuddering I got
and even hurt my torso once or twice),
but I was younger then and smoked a lot.
I gave tobacco up. I paid a price
but now I get a cold with little cough.
And when I get infected it’s not nice
how long it takes to blossom and move off.
A week of drier throat it seems to bring,
for even stagnant water in a trough
is ever changing, just like everything
around me, be it virus, be it me.
At last incessant sneezing and a sting
of moving phlegm and stuck mucosity
besets me, and I weary all too fast.
There’s diminution in my energy.
And now I wonder how long this will last,
if this is just a cold in fact to blame.
Or am I by some other ill harassed?
I ventured out and walked, and I got wet.
The rain was torrenting but still I went.
I knew where I was going I would get
dried off, and I had extra clothes. Intent
on buying snacks and boarding bus and train,
I let my pants get wetter than I meant,
and though the dryer here removed the bane
of late November storming, I’m still cold –
that’s more because of age than due to rain.
The fact is, I’m surprised to be so old.
It wasn’t any goal I sought to gain,
but months amounted and the decades tolled,
and so I have to learn a brand-new how
to nurture-warm a corpus that’s upset
by chill. I double socks and sweaters now.
As far back as my memory extends,
I’ve liked to be in my own room, within
my home. But I soon learned my joy depends
on leaving to return to origin.
Appreciation rests on change, and spends
in wasting sediment. What’s more, I win
real ownership of where I put my feet.
So even now I willing take the street.
I know a 3 year-old (she’ll soon be 4)
who captured the idea that she controls
what happens and by whom and even more –
the way all eyes should aim. The parents’ roles
don’t matter, not to them: the weary souls.
And lately time among that family
is iffy pleasure shot with toddler holes.
She isn’t boss. The job’s now forced on me.
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