Caught saying I hope to be like Cessaly in old age
sweet guileless cheerful open affectionate Cessaly
taking no offense when offense is given
erecting no walls against hurtful arrows flung
offering her open heart again and again
I realize I am nothing like that now.
Can one evolve so dramatically in old age?
I think not. Maybe next time around.
As Fate would finally have it after all the years
each turned their heads just in the nick
to see the other passing, remarking later
that had one or the other not turned
had she paused at the shoe store windows as usual
had he bought his ticket a little more quickly
had he strolled on in, eager to find his place
had either been diverted for even a few seconds
the convergence would not have happened
and none the wiser, they’d each have had
their evenings swim on in the usual way
nothing to remark on or puzzle over
the whole tenor of the remains of that day,
the following morning, the rest of their lives
untouched by Chance.
But of course, Fate did have it
and that was that.
Rain cascades over our soggy town
as if from God’s overfull gutter
and all I can think is his roof
must be leaking, too.
Raised Catholic I can’t help
but say his not hers, him not her,
cannot help picturing an old man
white of beard, a length of thin white hair,
in this case soaked through, a drop
hanging from his Roman nose
all because of a divine experiment
gone awry, humans left to their own devices
and now no way to stop the flood.
The rain that refused to grace us
last summer now will not let up
on point of pride and God himself,
hard pressed to keep a civil tongue
in his head, grumbles and roars
throughout the heavens.
What if one began again
regrouped
reconnoitered
recharted the way?
One could.
There are maps, compasses, helpful strangers,
rest stops, cheerful old salty dogs full of advice.
What if one did?
It is said as you spend your days
so you’ve spent a life.
So what shall it be?
Pennies tossed at trifles
or sums invested in what matters?
The book you planned to write
pile of paintings
trip to France
sonatas of Beethoven
garden overflowing
wrongs put right
catalog of birds
anatomy of stars
children nourished
loves cherished
problems solved.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
My own grief so sharp for children I don’t know
whose parents I’ve never seen, never met.
What to do with it, where to place it, how
to dislodge it, crouching in some tight corner,
from my body? It will not be removed.
I wander directionless, hungry like everyone
for the why as if knowing why would somehow soothe,
knowing it won’t and knowing too that there is no why.
A pall has settled over us all and I do not know how
or why a wise man might say to this
I don’t mind what happens
as if all that might happen is
a poorly timed thunderstorm, flat tire,
cancelled flight and not, for example,
a life cancelled or twenty or twenty seven.
Rufus looks up adoringly from
where he lies curled up against the pillow
the perfect little sweetheart of a dog.
Who would guess that at any given moment
a hapless passerby down our street would
elicit a firestorm of barking, growling, racing
in circles, standing on hind legs on the arm
of the couch to ascertain they have gone
by as they should, without pause, without
breaking and entering, without attempting
murder or mayhem against Mother, Brother, Miles?
Lazy lazy lazy
the getting out time later and later
the lure of pajamas stronger and stronger
ever pull the soft covers at my shoulders
crying Stay! Stay! like a lover
always wanting me wanting more.
Just a few more minutes
just one more hour . . .
Stay.
She says with some sadness that it
interests her to see who slows to her pace
and who does not
who among her friends accomodates
these changes wrought by age and misfortune
and who does not
who is willing to listen to speak
of loss and acceptance
of grief
and letting go
and who is not.
One wonders what threatens
what beckons
what retreats
what hides
in the feckless heart
what crooked bony finger implies
you too will succumb
you too will fail, will falter, will fall.
A gifted writer, the spoken word often her undoing.
Once, frustrated with her quiet lumpy students
she muttered loudly enough for all of them to hear
Why don’t you go out and take drugs so you’ll have some ideas in your heads?
A wrong thing to say, of course, and came with consequences
as did the day she stormed out of the English Department
slamming the door and grumbling loudly that she thought
she might go postal, later to claim in her letter of apology
that she did not own a gun and was rarely homicidal.
There she went oops once again.