She voiced opinion, and she made it strong,
but couldn’t elevate it to correct.
She always hikes her tone when she is wrong,
so much it’s come to be what I expect.
She has no clue how it was to belong
in me – no skill or patience to detect.
If I attempt to argue, it’s her style
to emphasize I must be in denial.
Too bad the bus is 16 minutes out,
but walking doesn’t seem advised to do –
this pain at base of spine is not a shout,
but whispers so persistently I’m through
with further ambulation. And it’s true
this bench is nice and so’s the shade on me.
I’m comfortable. Before my ride’s in view,
I’ll finish these 8 lines of poetry.
The neck is almost loose again, but warns
me on occasion to keep taking care –
it shoots an upward stab of pain, like thorns
embellish aging disks that harbor there.
My tongue is nearly healed at tip, from where
I bit it stressed and chewing two days gone,
and yesterday my low back didn’t spare
a twist. Today I won’t be using brawn.
I thought I wouldn’t have the time, and then
the puzzles almost solved themselves today.
I might have pushed the pedals once again,
till language study stole an hour away.
But I can do some yoga now, and when
I leave I’ll work my legs, for they’re okay
to be the free equipment I will use
for exercise and photographing views.
I sauntered to the store the other day.
I had an afternoon with no request
that I produce and nothing in my way,
and weather coming gently from the west.
Deciding I would walk a bit and pay
for peaches that in August taste the best,
I laced my shoes and paced in mild breeze,
observing summer clouds above the trees.
My oldest friend reported yesterday
anxiety she never felt before
(I always sensed it, but I couldn’t say
as much – she cherished laid-back image more).
It’s now progressed too present to ignore,
and seems to me from cognitive decline
endured without resistance, save a whine.
Two hours later, in our weekly talk,
my daughter (middle-aged) confessed to me
anxiety that tends to make her balk,
before she starts a fresh activity.
She’s “what the fuck?” but I think it might be
that mating young let processes get tabled
she’s facing now her partner is disabled.
Of course I listened to my mom at first;
I spent that time with her, and I was young.
But over years I found she was the worst
conveyor of emotions given tongue.
She harmless seemed, but her pathology
was never given voice or even air.
She tried to cut the passion out of me.
She flirted so I saw no person there.
And it should not have come as a surprise
to hear an older cousin not adore
our common grandma (as Mom sadly must).
Another cousin tells how otherwise
my father’s mother was than what before
I heard from Mom, too hurt-beset to trust.
Our conversation spurred me to recall
that 15 years ago the course was set.
Two kids were babies then, adored when small,
the third a year from breathing air and yet,
the atmosphere at home was trending cruel –
at least one parent pompous, self-proclaimed
and inarticulate. He seemed a fool
but brutal; wit and courtesy he maimed.
For me his talent gave him no excuse.
But I had no control and little say.
Implying that some acts looked like abuse,
my view was disregarded. Every stay
was garlanded with themes that didn’t blind me,
and so our talk last week served to remind me.
A shooting pain propelled me out of bed.
The left side of my neck objected when
I tried to pillow-shift my waking head.
I register fresh neck ache. But instead
of starboard stab begun 5 days ago
that slowly seemed to ease, the problem’s spread,
and now on port it makes a nasty show.
I’d criticize the way my children raise
their children, but I’d have to look at me.
I reared the slobs myself, in olden days,
and can’t assume each spouse exclusively
responsible for choices that must be
a shared decision. And to tell the truth,
the middle life is hard for all; I see
the world’s more challenging than in my youth.
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