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.
The structure that was built just east of me,
apparently completed weeks ago,
has shown few signs of any tenancy.
The light at 3 a.m. appears to glow
by some robotic timer’s agency.
But yesterday I saw a flash – a show
of bathroom light flipped on at 7:10,
like someone rose to use a toilet then.
Like most, when we were told to stay inside,
it interrupted hair cuts for a while.
Accepting that, embracing germicide,
I let my gray hair grow, and soon no style
gave me new ideas (and anyway,
who saw?) In time some cuts resumed – by then
my stylist’s life had changed, so I would stay
and she would visit, trimming me again.
But now she’s gone. She’s studying abroad.
I had to call and try somebody new
to me. This week my hesitation thawed.
I took the chair. I sighed through that shampoo.
Located in my favorite neighborhood,
the site, the person, and the cut were good.
I’m moving slower, but it’s not because
I’m older or in pain or feel unwell.
Avoiding careless injury and flaws
in attitude – now grace begins to gel
in me – a microchange in every cell.
The dashing never won me any boon –
it only pitched me forward. Now I swell
with small ideas I’ll try this afternoon.
Three weeks from now I’ll be away from here,
near midway through a tantalizing trip.
I used to travel thus most every year,
the chosen mode quite often via ship.
But Covid intervened with crowding fear,
with age and caution acting like a whip
that drove me home, corralling wanderlust.
And now though old I’m kicking off some dust.
Of course I’ve tried to change behavior more
than once, and more than once I’ve likewise failed.
What felt like stubbornness then made me sure
to try again – I’m worth the work entailed.
But I’ve seen others flunk and hit the floor –
they felt unworthy of success, and bailed.
It isn’t will, but is appropriate,
when confidence refutes the urge to quit.
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
 | Caleb Cheruiyot on No Blocks |
| sputterpub on For Now |
Sputterpub's Blog 