A bit adult at 5, when I was 8
and he was born, he seemed so young to me,
that 6 and 60 years don’t decimate
a first impression that’s especially
enhanced by his abiding friendly trait,
that kind and playful personality.
So his collapse last week, though passing brief,
has knocked us both to geriatric grief.
I seldom value compliments as much
as others seem to do, or you advise.
Perhaps I’m skeptical, or not in touch
with graciousness, or maybe I would prize
cooperation more than words. My tries
at humble gratitude seem too reserved
to please. But I’m consumed with sweet surprise
when kids express the praise I’ve well-deserved.
The flip side of anxiety appears
to be imagination. What so leaps
to fret, before a threat or peril nears,
can be engaged to spin an anecdote,
a narrative produced in hemispheres
that generate unchecked uneasiness.
A harness might be woven that adheres,
and overwrites the nervousness that keeps
you up at night. Make art with proto-fears.
The window job is not complete, and won’t
be finished for a half a month or more.
My guy is taking off a week I don’t
begrudge, and then he’ll start on every door
with soggy threshold (sadly, there are four),
while staining, trimming, making windows right.
For now, I’m pleased and able to ignore
disturbance, as I welcome back the light.
Most public servants aren’t competent;
effective doesn’t seem to be a goal.
So I don’t think we’ll call it accident
when red team fails to carry out its goal.
Their players don’t appear intelligent.
Their leader lacks sufficient self-control.
Such comforts me, renewing hope and nerve.
If wrong, their vision’s what I might deserve.
In screening sets of standup comedy,
I’m struck with how they regulate their speech.
They take good time that doesn’t seem to be
a pause for the applause or laughs. They teach
a slow enunciation I could try,
who most my life have spurted words so fast,
my brothers mocked while I felt pride in my
ability to make them feel outclassed.
But really, why’d I hurry so each word?
A little fear of interruption, sure,
that now seems somewhat desperate and absurd,
the more so for I never aimed to cure
another’s argument, or shed clear light
on any path but what for me seemed right.
They’re plus and minus 70 years old.
He made a silly error. She was miffed.
He could have asked. He knows she would have told
him gently how (she has a teaching gift).
But he was insecure, and careless too.
The error cost her time – she had to shift
direction for correction (nothing new),
and thought he might at least apologize.
But just as she was simmering to stew,
she also started yoga. Her surprise
was how without a paragraph she caught
an insight – what a wasteful exercise –
requesting an apology is fraught
with empty words, resentment, falsity.
Addressing stress, she entertained the thought
that rather than chastise, her mind could be
directed to what might be self-controlled,
and trim her expectation, honestly.
Some mornings I wake up before I thought
I might, but after what’s sufficient sleep
to operate so consciously. I’m brought
to full attentive state, and I can’t creep
back into dreaming comfort. I’m not fraught
or even fretful, but don’t want to keep
reclining, so I rise before the sun,
to vary customary. And it’s fun.
Where crosswalks aren’t indicated, there
are fewer accidents. When workers wear
their chosen clothes, like Fridays, they produce
more than when they’re constrained in stuff not loose.
Catastrophes invite the best, and any
occasions full of looters aren’t many.
Around is mostly good, I want to stress
(and argue with attention-grabbing press).
We’re better than portrayers say we are
(but maybe that’s just negative P.R.)
Until his question, I was unaware
of anything abnormal in my eye.
An hour earlier it wasn’t there,
but suddenly two bloody streaks low-framed
my iris. I had moved with normal care.
I don’t recall a cough or sneeze or blow.
Another aging sign? A passing scare?
It cannot hurt to take a day to try
a spell of cherished rest within my lair…
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