Five minutes a poem. All written tonight to catch up!!
Day 4: Animal poem.
Dog
Down dog,
you remind me of
what I'm doing here.
You sigh with such disappointment
when I'm too busy pushing words around on the page
to scratch your chin
behind your ears.
You wait patiently warming my feet
until the next time I'll look into your eyes and coo,
run you about town at a pace
you only can just deal with.
When I wake, you're there, smiling, reminding me
that, in spite of everything,
today is another beautiful day,
full of things to sniff, chase after, and be grateful for.
Day 5: A monument
Anjo's Quickstop (Hoquiam, WA)
Penny candy by the bag
nickel hats
Swedish fish
red, red chewy raspberries.
On richer days,
fat, seasoned potato wedges, two tablespoon-sized tubs of sour cream
Pac-man for two quarters a game
Sunday afternoon with my older cousin De-bor-ah,
who helped me forge the notes for
two packs of Copenhagen
one for her
one for me
and then again when her mother was "too sick to make it to the store"
a soft pack of Marlboro reds
that we smoked under the bridge
in front of the skating rink
talking about how much fun she would
in the fall
in middle school.
I was so jealous.
Day 6: Something Missing
Listening this evening to the Cowboy Junkies song
Tuesday morning, I don't feel so much like
something is missing.
Yesterday, I thought this extra two feet in my bed
was something I ought to fill as soon as I could,
but this morning, I'm thinking that the real thing
that was missing all those years was something else entirely
and this space makes me smile,
knowing what I want to fill it with.
I'll wait for Haley's Comet to come again if I have to.
Until the next eclipse.
Until the moon drops through my sun roof
in an attempt to hitch a ride and comments
on the song playing on the radio, saying,
"I love this fucking song!"
Day 7: A dirty poem OR a clean poem
I should have known
when you commented on the state of my kitchen
after calling yourself a neatfreak
that you were prone to blurred vision.
My kitchen is almost always clean, but
I don't think you quite fathom our different
circumstances.
How for you being alone gives you more time
to get your ducks in a row
and how for me being alone is a chosen condition
that has created quite a stir in my domestic predictability.
Cleanliness is next to godliness,
but godliness is only possible maybe twice a week.
Day 8: Routine
Oh comfort!
When the stars in my eyes
find they aren't shining in your beautiful dark skies,
buzz of my alarm,
feet on the floor,
water on my face,
the walk with the dog in the cold silence of near dawn,
when I can chant Om Ganapati Om
as loud as I feel like,
loud enough to drown out the longing
for a sky to shine in.
Then, I am grateful for this lesson plan,
this bell schedule,
this afternoon run,
this sun salutation.
Day 9: A memory
Of all the times I should have known better,
should have tucked tail and run.
After a day of chasing
the brightest giggling eyes around the carpet all day,
tickling feet,
wiping drool,
watching those same eyes spoon mounds of avocado
into his mouth in fat fists,
mostly missing his mouth.
After snatching a study break in during naptime.
When the door flew open with a thud
and I could smell the two of you smiling at your manliness.
When out of guilt you paid me sixty dollars you wouldn't remember
to clean the puke that missed the bowl.
Of all the times, I never felt more like a whore.
Day 10: Friday
For Liz McLaren
How will I know, Liz?
A Friday night at the dance club.
My first solitary Christmas.
And, I met you
who was willing to put taste aside
for some booty-shaking,
singing at the, yes, top of our lungs,
an obvious line of questioning.
Liz, babe, let me tell you,
you will know.
And if you don't, just ask me.
Cause I know
about these
things.
Day 11: An object
You contain perfect green wonder,
so easily yielding to my spoon.
A delight when you are ripe to be open.
A disappointment if in my impatience tempts me
to peek too soon, or if in my business
I miss the signs of your readiness.
I loved you before
he spoke the words, "I'm sorry," eyes focused
on his untied canvas sneaker.
Heart-sized.
Oh, avocado!
I'm taking this slimy brown pit,
suspending it on toothpicks
on the rim of a jar of water,
placing it in the sun and
checking on you everyday,
praying that you'll root and grow so
I can transplant you
and have hearts to spare
someday.
Day12: So we decided to ____________.
So we decided to get married.
But it wasn't like when you're at the grocery store
pulling things off the shelves,
filling your squeaky-wheeled cart
and can pause to say, hey I don't need this
box of cookies
jar of gourmet capers
six dollar loaf of break.
But, we treated it like that,
skipping rebellious and ringless into the next and then
the next day. How many
times I wanted to put you
back on the shelf!
But, it wasn't like at the grocery store.
Day 13: A hobby
Since you left I've thought of taking up needlepoint
but I don't have a thimble.
Or scrapbooking, but I'm afraid of papercuts.
Or knitting, but I can't make the time.
But, moon-gazing!
That's turned out to be just the hobby for me.
Day 14: Anti-love poem
The biggest but in the universe
escaped your lips just when
I was about to say,
there's no reason we can't do anything
if we promise to be the interlaced fingers offering a leg-up
for--whatever! For each other.
I want to see you get that star.
But you were...
But you did...
But you thought...
But, but, but nothing!
There's only now.
And if nothing else, I thought
you got that.
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