I’m slow to comprehend my impotence
in trying to deflect someone I love
from iterating choice that makes no sense.
My logic fails, my reason gives no shove,
and little matters my intelligence,
except to late-accept, like from above,
the counsel I change counsel to restraint,
and let the masochist enjoy complaint.
Unsexy wrestling matches, tacit, vain,
like who worked harder, who dealt with more stress,
became a common thread, a dull refrain
that thrummed beneath domestic busyness.
What once had been good talking and direct
communication, clouded with subtext.
The friendship love had led us to expect
devolved to lack, and hours half-perplexed.
The coffeemaker would be set to start
at 6 a.m. each weekday, but that meant
that someone must pour water in its heart,
and scoop ground coffee to correct extent.
It’s sad how each would wait the other out.
Divorce removed the contest and the doubt.
My mother can’t get down upon the floor,
and up again is even harder still.
She’s 98 – you’re 70 plus 4 –
the exercise is not a test of skill.
It takes exertion that needs more of will
than sinew. Don’t surrender easily.
Make up-and-down 5 times a daily drill,
and you’ll recover flexibility.
I paid attention to his words. Four years
ago he wouldn’t stay at home. He said
although he loved his partner, he had fears
estrangement could develop. So instead,
he opted for the office, ate his bread
mid-day alone, and registered no lack.
His story now is home meant chair or bed,
and movement ‘round the office saved his back.
Reiterating (as he’s wont to do),
he wondered how cartoonists can create
an opus every day. He likes to chew
old questions, aimless, when he could instead
attempt a daily project, so he knew
that practice will cause receptivity.
His focus would expand – in, out, and through.
He’d note impressions, questions, and his state
of mind would boom as inspiration grew.
An atmospheric river, says the news.
My mother, brother, buddies second that.
If I were you I’d stay home, they enthuse,
but I’m determined I will venture out.
The bus and train are running – I can use
them and my feet to visit some I love.
I’m old but I’m still able to refuse
the cautions that deflate. I’m laughing at
alerts, and I’ll come home without a bruise.
They snuck the stucco on one day last week.
I must have been away from home – I heard
no indication, saw no skilled technique.
It’s been a while since I’ve penned a word
about the houses blocking my oblique
perspective, for this is at least the third
week they and skunks have given me a rest.
With silence and sweet breathing I’ve been blessed.
I dreamt last night of insects in my place.
Ten ants supported a mosquito lead.
The crawlers visit winters, when a brace
of rain befalls, but do mosquitos breed
in cold?
She tries to buzz my toddler’s face;
I execute before the beast can feed.
I carefully explain the flattened bug,
and then we kneel to play upon my rug.
I like to spend my Mondays home alone.
I opted years ago to not commute
that day but work remotely, first by phone
and later email, erranding as well.
And even in “retirement,” I’m prone
to save the day for me – I see the staff
on Tuesdays, till this week when one has flown
to puppy-pick. I chose to substitute,
so Monday-worked. Now Tuesday’s all my own.
The fact is, we don’t have a big sky here.
The ocean ferries clouds and overcast,
and though our air is generally clear,
we don’t see starscapes like the prairies, grassed
and landlocked. We are graced with atmosphere
of moist and breezy, line-of-sight not vast.
But even here we sometimes have a sky
that stops me in my tracks and bathes my eye.
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