Accommodation takes its price from those
who loving serve although their wishes veer
from servitude. I know you never chose
to bend to needs of others you hold dear.
Alas it sometimes means you strike a pose
that isn’t natural, cannot be sincere.
The pressure mounts. The climax seems abrupt,
but sure as fate of course you must erupt.
I dreamt last night of one who passed away
some time ago. In sleep I saw and heard
his face, his voice. And strong I longed to say
forgotten phrases that would be absurd,
for I have learned, surviving to today,
how impotent and vain is every word
communicated to the unconvinced.
We hear with hearts, our brains by feelings rinsed.
Don’t get me wrong, for I don’t mean to say
all elements are orbiting ‘round me.
It’s just that, bleak as circumstances may
appear at visual infinity,
conditions close show no signs of decay
or decadence or doom’s catastrophe.
The future’s dark. Regret and rue are strong,
but near me there appears no object wrong.
Departing early is what I prefer,
affording time for glitches and delays.
I never know when blockage will occur –
incorporating breathing room defrays
emergency and urgency, repels
anxiety from leeching peace of mind.
I won’t be hosting nervousness or spells
of angst if I depart when I’m inclined.
An hour and a quarter’s not too soon
to leave my home to catch an early bus.
There’s no gray tone to me between the boon
of leisurely proceeding and the fuss
of racing hauling bags like fleeing crime.
I know no better way to spend my time.
It took him 16 days to shed the bug.
He caught a side effect – a full rebound
from swallowing the antiviral drug.
And halfway through the span, his sister found
a painful rash that swamped her vim and downed
her sleepless from a shingles waist attack.
In her case antivirals worked – a round
of tablets gave her sleep and comfort back.
It’s cherry time again. The Bings are in.
I try to moderate, but I’ll admit
I overdo each spring. Once I begin,
I never stop till I have stripped each pit.
Appreciating local origin,
I savor all the flavor. I don’t quit
until my plate’s exhausted. So I’m glad
it’s only for two months they can be had.
For seven days I barely left my space.
And then I ventured out a little bit –
a market walk, massages to my face,
a cautious lunch and one small glass of wine,
collecting from my brother an embrace
amid abating minor sore fatigue.
My symptoms weren’t bad, but there’s a trace
remainder, and a feeling I emit
like homecoming from some exotic place.
It must have been two dozen years ago
or more, when I began to spend four days
a week commuting to the office. Though
I worked at home as well, I stayed at home.
And Monday was the day I chose to blow
off close demands of others, more or less.
The erstwhile worst of days I came to know
as best, and even in retired phase,
each Monday is a bounty I bestow.
Near all of my extended family
who live nearby were virus-struck of late.
And though no one felt awful, certainly
we each took proper steps to isolate.
At last, a fortnight later, we all see
no testing lines. We’re good to congregate
with others, dine and shop without a fetter.
We’re positively negatively better.
For seven months I heard the tale unfold.
It started when her laundry system died.
She purchased new equipment and then told
me afterward she wasn’t satisfied.
She couldn’t start or stop each new machine.
She called installers back – they showed her how.
But operator error was her scene;
she phoned the store – the salesman failed to bow.
She threw some fits. Indignant, discontent,
insisting on return and refund, fast,
she nursed her stress and anger till she bent,
bought new and learned to use them. But she cast
the first away, demanding recompense.
That failed. At last she’s calmed. But without sense.
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