His shoulder fits my palm exquisitely.
And though I’ve been besotted since his start,
there’s now a tender bony quality
that heats and even pulls my heart apart
to make an ever bigger space, where he
can safely lodge in love and memory.
I know and hope the boy will grow to man,
but I will cherish 7 while I can.
I used to watch the news and sometimes look
around me on the bus, the train, the street,
and wonder who was packing what it took
to harm. Who had a knife in a discreet
location? Were there hidden guns aboard?
The folks around were varied, and benign
I had assumed, but media assured
me peril was about without a sign.
I never saw the evidence, and now
my queries on my peers are shifted so
I wonder who is feeling sick, or how
they’re dealing with depression. I don’t know
how many suffer reflux, headaches, gas,
and who believes their misery will pass.
I got reminded viewing my own verse.
I read some lines I drafted just last week,
and triggered memory that could be worse,
regarding images I’ve set to seek.
I’m nothing medical, yet I can nurse
today intention that is not unique
for me but cherished. I’ve no bucket list,
but here’s a cup that’s not to be dismissed.
They boarded at the Powell stop, I think –
a mixed-race pair with bags. Each held a spliff
they didn’t light. I looked up from my ink,
and met his eyes with neutral gaze – no tiff
or judgment in me, and he placed his pack
beside me, in a vacant seat, as if
he meant no harm or insult. It was black
and clean, and he’d a shopping bag as well.
A woman boarded next, and gave him flack
but in a friendly way – a little spell
of joking shit, the games young people play.
They knew each other, far as I could tell.
And then we traveled underneath the bay.
They signaled they’d detrain at Oakland West,
and gathered in an exiting array.
He swung the shopping bag with playful zest.
They followed out its up trajectory,
and left behind the backpack. No one guessed
that was deliberate (very doubtful). We
yelled “Hey, your bag,” just as the train door closed.
By then I’d moved the pack in front of me,
and shot this picture where it now reposed.
To terrorism there appeared no link.
I shrugged at three, and left while others dozed.
For half an hour yesterday, I sat
upon my leather loveseat and before
a room-enhancing fire, like a cat
in cozy comfort, socks above the floor
and cushioned on a footrest I adore.
I felt for 30 minutes no intent
or obligation, relaxation more
than excellent, and perfectly content.
Perhaps the populace is dumbing down.
It seems unfiltered speech is on the rise.
And insight’s swamped among some tides that drown
consideration. This is no surprise.
The signals have been here without disguise –
since 17, I’ve seen the evidence.
But lately what is striking ears and eyes
is dearth of wit and sparse intelligence.
A drizzle seemed to chase the kids away.
Traversing campus, there were none about.
I snapped the shot proceeding on my way
to Downtown Berkeley, and I found them, shout-
ing, socializing where the train tracks lay.
But not, it seemed, to travel. They were out
upon the platform, but they all ignored
four trains. Nobody moved to get aboard.
Some minor inconveniences this week
have over-occupied a tired soul.
Computer glitch, discovered drainpipe leak,
and need to make two calls to put control
where fit, have seemed to charge a hefty toll,
and left the bearer feeling quite upset.
Today’s assignment’s to review the role,
unplug and re-engage, to rise reset.
Uneasy when there was no quick reply:
she’d flown across the continent, and I
just longed to read my girl had safe-arrived…
And also, Mom had fallen. She survived,
but even tearing skin, at ninety-nine,
is serious, and so concern was mine.
When she did not pick up the telephone,
I paced a little then, at home, alone.
I think we liked each other even when
we squabbled young in bickering and tease.
But as we’ve aged, and only now and then
achieve a meeting, after kiss and squeeze,
we fall into affection’s lap again,
where every word and thought just serves to please.
I witness sibs who drift apart or rift,
and know this brother-love’s a precious gift.
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