The toothpaste won’t go back into its tube.
The travel out the lamp is just one way.
When curiosity unhinged that cube
and let fly trouble to the light of day,
there was no method to reverse the spray.
Such lessons are so easy to forget,
nobody turns from digital display
as maypoles morph into the Internet.
Sixteen years old suggested someone kill
the figurehead. The grownups jumped and said,
Uh uh – that course of action no doubt will
produce a martyr – leave the jerk undead.
Eliminate another way instead
of cartoon violence – the remedy
will not emerge from arms but from the head.
You have to search for long-term strategy.
I loathe it then – you waste your words to me,
suggesting fruitless effort once again,
or starting any statement “hopefully.”
I loathe it then.
I wish you’d mean it if you say amen,
conversing with apparent empathy,
or syllables that use no oxygen.
Of autism is this variety?
I’d have you be deliberate as this pen.
Above all, please don’t fake sincerity.
I loathe it then.
I hit the floor in drive to tick off things:
the puzzles, Duolingo, more, implore
due time from me, until set schedule brings
me showered dressed & ready out my door.
From 6 until 11, I’d before
me motivation and a bid to move.
When finally I walk outside I’m sore,
but feel accomplished as my thoughts improve.
I’ve tried with my co-residents for years,
to get them to respect, in courtesy,
our smattering of shared stuff. It appears
my efforts just collect futility.
They overload the landfill, and don’t bend
their cardboard back to flat. Economy
of space and time don’t with them seem to trend.
Their aims appear to angle differently.
So after ten and seven years, wherein
I had to pass their garbage in my path
from door to curb, I sighed in oxygen
and then exchanged initiative for wrath.
I swapped the placement of the ugly cart,
and felt new lightness in my head and heart.
When Covid started and we stayed inside,
I aimed to post a stanza every day.
To meet that goal I sought verse forms, and tried
a multitude of rhyme and meter schemes.
The effort reimbursed me with a wide
collection – inventory I can work.
For sixteen hundred fifty days, I plied
this trade, and soon I’m putting it away.
The streak became a bully, not a guide.
They overfill the garbage bin of late.
Each weekend I see signs of their abuse:
disposing of compostables and freight
they could recycle, claiming no excuse.
My efforts don’t succeed; words are no use.
Today I moved that bin to its new space.
No longer can it draw rats to produce
a meal, and now it won’t offend my face.
A streak that’s an encouragement at first,
infusing effort when the spirits flag,
can ultimately morph into the worst
propulsion forcing sorry work: a drag
that’s holding back, compulsion weirdly nursed
to shrink, reversing growth from stretch to sag.
I contemplate two weeks away, and think
it may be wise to take a break from ink.
Construction feet away from my north wall
I tolerate. I understand. But please
turn off the radio! I’ve made the call
before, but every time the crew is new
(retained as specialists to now install
or build the next phase of the A.D.U.),
the noise invades my quiet like a squall
of low fidelity, like ear disease,
like hornets I can’t tolerate at all.
I’ve recently been spending time among
acquaintances who aren’t doing well.
I’m sorry, but I try to hold my tongue,
show sympathy, and don’t attempt to tell
them they could stretch their necks and breathe a spell
of self-esteem and -care that’s nourishing.
I’ve seen their empty nods; I won’t hard-sell.
I’ll tend in silence to my flourishing.
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