My circumstance is more than adequate.
Bestowed with time to ponder and enhance
my comprehension, I prepare to fit
my circumstance.
I’ve solitude to sway in private dance.
I’ve four days and home comfort for respite.
No danger lurks and no one looks askance.
I do not host a fool or hypocrite.
I have at least two projects to advance.
For half a week, I’ll value and admit
my circumstance.
The one event that’s calendared today
is lunch with a companion dear to me.
The weather’s soft and vernal – insects play
in blossoms – through my window all I see
looks healthy, clean and stirring in the sway
of breeze. Before and after lunch, I’ll be
at comfort in my garden or my room,
and watch wisteria’s cascading bloom.
Conversing with my brother, we recalled
occasions when a loved one acted poorly:
the time a sibling of the bride appalled;
or when his wife tried hurting my kid sorely.
I mentioned mine has not yet overhauled
her heart to allocate forgiveness surely.
Our tone was fond – we didn’t need a breather.
Surprised, I heard him say “I haven’t either.”
I usually want readers for my verse,
but some are just a memo of today,
recording healing progress as I nurse
myself (so slowly now), in cloud array.
The problem with my foot’s not getting worse.
Another week or so of rest, I’d say,
will let me hike. This stanza’s for no book.
I see you’re busy now. You needn’t look.
The baby triggered his pathology
(or that’s the way his arc appears from here).
Her birth engendered protectivity,
erecting walls that ceiled the atmosphere,
that met in peaks to close off light and air,
and when the breathless spouse declared them done,
the wound re-opened (one can see it there),
and he retreated then from everyone.
The third event, the final act or blow,
came masquerading as a benefit.
Inheritance allowed him to forego
all work, retreating home to ever sit
in sadness, though he found another wife.
And now it’s obvious – he wasted life.
You seem to seek approval when you’re coarse
or petulant. Rejecting self-control
you fling or rant, and want me to endorse
behavior that’s repellant. You’re not droll
and you’re not nice, and you’ll not earn respect
because your hair is gray and you have wealth.
I beg to disagree when you expect
me to applaud – that’s not the path to health.
So listen when a stranger reprimands
you acting up. If folks around you laugh,
they’re not appreciating your demands
so much as feeling awkward at your gaffe.
I hate such narratives. And I would say it,
but you’re too old for me to well convey it.
I heard the saw before I reached my block
on Saturday, and wondered at the sound.
I turned the corner with a little shock,
to see big chunks of trunk be brought to ground.
I wondered how the tree had looked, leaf-crowned;
I never paid it any mind before.
I searched home photographs, until I found
a view of how it looked from our front door.
“Benign” the doctor said, as he surveyed
the planes and creases of my ancient skin.
“We call them barnacles” his voice conveyed –
these torso bumps of decades’ origin.
I let my fancy freewheel, and begin
to circulate the concept in my skull.
I took the thought of dry-dock for a spin,
but no one is about to scrape this hull.
Across the yard, my neighbor has a light
above her door, but seldom uses it.
She’s student-busy and her time is tight,
and she has other ways to come or quit.
But something sent her out at 3 last night,
and suddenly my place and face were lit.
By LED my rest was harshly maimed;
her outside light had somehow been misaimed.
Remembering a lawsuit long ago,
a meritless complaint that went for years
before dismissal (prejudiced!), I know
that after months of daily stress and fears,
when fair relief arrives, the cure is slow.
An aggravation long-sustained is dust,
but happiness is slow while I adjust.
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