My daughter photos roadkill that she meets,
and maybe that’s why I paused yesterday
to pay attention, walking different streets,
to this expired squirrel. But the way
his body rested, in supine array,
exhibited uniqueness to my sight.
His chest and belly shone in soft display.
I never knew the underside was white.
We promised more than once that we would tell
each other if we noticed any sign
of age-compressed perspectives that impel
one’s personality to snit, repine,
or tunnel vision, blurred and inward-turned.
To forward and beyond we made our pact.
But treaty’s gone to needy – what we yearned
to hold is fading lately, wrecked and wracked.
We quibble nearly every time we talk.
I want to be reminding you, but how
can I make you attend? I feel you balk
and hear you argue almost daily now.
I want to keep that promise, but you sink,
offended and too crotchety, I think.
A month ago, the ferns beneath the tree
were old and rusty-looking, so he chopped
them down, and left brown clumps for me to see.
I moved toward him as if I would have stopped
his shears, but then he pointed to the wee
and pin-curled fronds beneath the spears he’d cropped.
I’m glad I let him prune and pulverize,
for now new chartreuse growth eye-gratifies.
Self-conscious after surgery, and more
inclined to stay inside than normally
(although he’s always liked his bedroom floor
and often opts to play internally),
I spent some hours in his company,
in talk as usual and loving play.
I don’t claim that the cure was purely me,
but afterwards he went outside today.
About your love I’m not competitive.
This friendship has to have some room for me.
Our conversation’s argumentative,
and seldom now includes affinity.
You sort yourself and so refuse to be
dynamic – you won’t grow or even bend.
And lately you refute our history.
I think you might prefer another friend.
I woke to petals scattered on the deck,
and raised my gaze to note the flowering
that seemed to open overnight – each speck
a sign that still surprises every spring,
a harbinger of fruit the weeks will bring
that only birds and squirrels want to eat:
small plums that leave their juice on everything,
and like the petals make me watch my feet.
The surgery was recommended now.
A minor operation on a kid –
enlargement and a skin graft to allow
reception of more sound. The parents did
consent – I had no power to forbid
and wouldn’t have. But what a stressful day.
The hours dragged. I sensed my heartbeat skid,
a generation and a bay away.
I heard some clunks against my eastern wall.
I woke but turned and soon returned to sleep.
Nocturnal yardmates sometimes race or sprawl,
and often use those drainpipes as they creep
from roof to fence to deck to hunt, by crawl
or pounce, and fight or scavenge for their keep.
This morning I saw remnants from their toil –
a trail of crumpled shards of kitchen foil.
Of course I love the smell of printed ink.
My prized possession always was a book.
My favorite job was bookstore clerk, I think,
and every move I made for shelves, until –
the kids moved out and small became my kink;
and independent merchants were submerged
by big box stores and sellers with a link;
and Covid killed each public reading nook.
Now printed tomes have nearly grown extinct.
The inspiration I select as best
for me this week, to work for what I need,
is channeling a knight upon a quest –
an errant hero bound to do a deed.
Committed to 3 labors, I won’t rest
until I wrestle phone and web, and feed
bureaucracy with patience, ink, and grit.
By increments I’ll fill the requisite.
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