The thrumming din of rain enchants my ear;
it almost makes me want a roof of tin.
I turn the TV down, so I can hear
the thrumming din.
I scan the forecast – when will it begin?
I scrutinize for dark the atmosphere.
I don’t love leaks, but patter makes me grin.
All winter is my favorite time of year.
Though colder as I age, rain lets me spin
with glee. In nature’s temple I revere
the thrumming din.
I never found a soulmate, but I didn’t search for long.
I had no faith his feet were on the earth.
I harbored fancies in my head, but facts were always strong,
and likelihood was where I lived since birth.
The mating game seemed like a vote to me:
the field imperfect and the task to choose
the lesser (least?) of flawed humanity
that would reciprocate and not abuse
imagination, body parts, or time permitted us.
Romantic wait I never could sustain.
Perhaps I should have bided, dared, and staged flamboyant fuss,
but no one moved my heart or stirred my brain.
We’re cutting bait a day before we must.
Our passion for that angle fades away.
Uncertainty has swamped and soaked all trust
the rigging will be sound. So we’ll obey
our self-command until a later day.
We’ll seek another course and latitude.
A mutual reluctance now has sway.
Refusal fuels a better attitude.
My time’s my own. I’m old enough to sow
whatever crop I choose. I live alone,
with resources and health enough to know
my time’s my own.
But so far I’m so busy that I’ve grown
to cherish days when I don’t have to show
up meeting folks in person or by phone.
The slots this week are allocated so,
commitments might decant from me a moan.
I only have today in peace, although
my time’s my own.
Anticipation used to be the best
emotion for excitement in my heart.
I forward-looked so well it warmed my chest,
enjoying most before events would start.
That’s why I didn’t fancy a surprise,
and friends who left plans loose deflected me
from wanting to connect. I analyze
this easily – there’s no chance to foresee.
I used to wonder what I’d do when old,
and facing future certainly less long.
But dwelling in my 8th decade – behold:
my wish to savor planning isn’t strong.
Instead I’m liking lack of pain or care
(right now no worry’s looming anywhere).
Among the benefits of growing old
I want to list invisibility.
The silver hair’s not ugly, but the gold
is now I have the opportunity
to watch unseen, to witness and behold
the denizens of my community.
Conspicuous I tended from my youth.
I’m liking anonymity, in truth.
She wants a burger every time we try
a restaurant we haven’t been to yet.
The menu has some options that could fly,
but she’s uncomfortable – her mind gets set
on ordinary fare, and she’ll forget
that sandwich is too loaded to be fun.
She’ll strip the bun and condiments, and let
her anger cook at blandness, overdone.
Am I secure? My daughter asked last week,
who runs and bikes and hikes alone, for pure
unsullied pleasure, smart and never meek.
Am I secure?
Her path was barricaded then, for sure
there’d been a random stabbing near the creek.
A homicide dictated a detour.
I sympathized, for circumstance can wreak.
Yet one can’t stay at home. I said – Endure,
and be alert. But waste no words to speak,
“Am I secure?”
I rode BART after sunset Wednesday night,
my body tired and my brain adrift,
and realized I was feeling quite all right.
I gazed at others, and I sensed a lift
of love for everyone within my sight.
Sensation washed inside me like a gift,
and though I didn’t understand the source,
I seek to keep the memory, of course.
I’m old enough to laugh in lieu of blush,
but I just learned the proper way to flush
a toilet I have owned for seven years.
I understood the tank, and how no gears
assist in operating the device,
but no installer gave me some advice
or manual I’d probably ignore.
I didn’t know that when I needed more
of force to push the waste the place it’s meant,
I must depress the lever with intent.
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