I’m used to weird. A cuckoo in the nest,
the black sheep in my family, who veered
away from their conditions on my quest,
I’m used to weird.
A beatnik when the hippies all appeared –
an anarchist against all guns – unstressed
when solitude and all-alonely neared –
Conservative but radical, and blessed
with anti-chaos thoughts that won’t be steered …
Abhorring vote results, I’ve self-assessed:
I’m used to weird.
He landed in construction after school.
His liberal arts degree led to no chair.
He’d learned to use most any kind of tool
from summer jobs encountered everywhere.
The labor exercised his arms and mood.
His skills advanced with every passing year.
And years did pass – his prime time was accrued
by hours grown to decades in that sphere.
Preferring self-employment, he postponed
the plans that can amount. His strategy
still-born was wreathed in tactics, as he honed
old habits. Now the man is 53,
and seems to focus only with hindsight.
Although, you know, he always meant to write.
I’m halfway through obnoxious meds, and know
I’ll flourish when they stop protecting me.
I’m caring for myself, and I bestow
compared to ℞ automatically
dispensed, attention of prime quality.
I’m introducing exercise and food
appropriate for my recovery.
I’m nourishing a patient attitude.
A question tossed by media (big deal) –
Three favorite people? was the prompt I heard.
Without intention answers popped, surreal
but true 3 personalities occurred
in mind, like ghosts beside me. I was lured
to comprehend it’s not I love them more,
but I’m at home with each, to use the word
connoting where I am myself, for sure.
A browse through media that illustrate
the poems I’ve posted to the cloud for years
presents a picture used when I last ate
Amoxicillin (4 years back). My fears
are justified – last night’s 3 hour spate
of nausea and heartburn now appears
to come from meds. What then burned 6 days in
besets me 2 pills after I begin.
We set the date a month ago. And since,
I’ve thought about what’s coming now and then.
It took the surgeon seconds to convince
me of necessity to once again
relieve me of two molars I don’t need –
one loose and one with pockets carved beneath.
Tomorrow is the day we both agreed
I’d sit sedated while he takes the teeth.
So far in aging it has been my luck
to only rot in mouth precociously.
I pull my card again, say what the fuck,
with gratitude that’s all that’s pulled from me,
appreciating I’ve no graver ills,
as well as the prescription for some pills.
When I began providing grandkid care
(2 days a week), before the plague arrived,
the parents left for work all day, and there
in playful creativity we thrived.
Our moods in sync, our attitudes agreed.
I grew more close to him than I had done
with mine when they were small and knobby-kneed.
At home or out, awake or not, was fun.
Conditions altered when his sibling came.
The virus moved the parents’ work inside.
They almost micro-managed, and the same
discovery and freedom paled. They tried
to join and modify, in parts, our day,
as if themselves were hankering to play.
I don’t own acres and I pay a price
to live here, but I chose deliberately
location where the weather’s ever nice,
among green hills and sweet topography.
I picked it cause it’s where I want to be,
for more than brief vacations. To my eye,
near home there’s always goods for me to see,
by water, garden, underneath our sky.
Auditioning we neither of us were,
but 14 days in close proximity
made space for ups and downers to occur
which we together weathered pleasantly.
Assisting her to manage her device,
allowing me to vent a gentle nudge,
agreeing when to rest or drink was nice,
and no one was inclined to flail or judge.
We’ve traveled well before, but years ago.
We’re older now and single and aware
how much we value friendship, as we grow
in confidence. Congenial is fair
description for this summary to use.
In fact we’re organizing next year’s cruise.
I waited till October 23rd
to turn the fire on, addressing chill.
The furnace early used to seem absurd;
I always did without its warmth until
November. But the climate’s getting ill,
and older I don’t weather cold for sure.
Surrendering to change, adjusting will,
my fire blazes pathways to explore.
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