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.
I’d love to talk about the other K –
how orbits of dependents have been skewed,
and what the friend abandonments convey,
suggesting flaws in view and attitude.
I’d like to think aloud about a choice
a dear one made, apparently impelled
by pain, who didn’t let another voice
resound against opinion fiercely held.
I want to share these subjects with the friend
I’ve talked to longest – from our college youth
to this age, but I can’t ignore the trend
she now exhibits – “speaking her own truth,”
by hector-lecturing my hearing sore.
Her rant-interrogations slam the door.
The crate appeared last week and blocked the path.
My neighbor’s name was on it, but inside
it was a puzzle. Though I took a bath
before I left, the box did not subside,
and it still towered unidentified
until the morning light revealed, unpacked,
an outdoor fire place. My eyes descried
a giant cone in flaming tone, in fact.
Although I didn’t sleep enough last night
(awake from 3 to 5, I read a lot),
and though I had a headache near my right-
side temple, I’m discovering I’m not
performing poorly. Finding that I’ve got
sufficient stamina for exercise,
sufficient brain and less of morning snot,
my smile’s 3 parts thanks and 2 surprise.
A bladder of burlap has settled on shore,
a sandbag that’s lost all its fill.
With each ebbing wave it’s inflated once more –
then breakers deplete it until
it’s flattened on sand and conforming to floor.
So I am inspiring, withdrawing, to spill
my exhalation soft on pebbled ground,
my breath a measured tidal pulse of sound.
Although we didn’t plan the pregnancy,
we welcomed it with pride and gratitude.
And 8 months later, we learned how to be
engaged in work more vital than we dreamed –
an unremitting labor: infancy
to kid to teen, unglamourous and tough.
Of course there were some signs we failed to see,
our vision by fatigue and closeness skewed.
You call that arrogance? Try empathy.
Encountering a bole of sycamore,
it stopped me as it often has before.
I touch its textured bark, its patterned scale
like camouflage or puzzle pieces, pale
beneath and shading gray to green. It’s plane
elsewhere, and pollarded in parks, but range
from root to upward, outward, fills its frame,
and root in Middle English is its name.
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