Finding your rhythm
there are familiar patterns you can scratch at
to remind yourself
your feet are your feet.
You drag them along in new sneakers
no matter what sidewalk
you’re pounding
it’s still
those same toes.
Dad’s watch, again
I’m wearing dad’s
watch again to turn
my left arm into his left arm
to give him an easy way
to remind me
how time works and
that the world keeps turning, the face scratched
by him, by his dad, and now me.
The seconds in
some kind of rush who
the hell knows why.
A couple
surrounded by trees surrounded by
Pittsburgh ruins
that will be rebuilt
dressed
both in blue
with just enough quirk to their style
you know they put time and thought into it.
Waiting for the wedding photographer
and when you and your wife and daughter walk by
and you say:
“you are the best-dressed muggers I’ve ever seen.”
the guy says:
“That’s so nice. Give me your wallet.”
Your arm
A were-child
a little were-girl with ponytails and
a bike with a basket and bell
can eat her own weight in about
an hour. Which doesn’t
sound like much but you know
that’s more than your arm, your leg,
your head.
A case
Is there a case to be made
a first affirmative delivered in defense
of collating those second-rate thoughts
you might not see again (or even miss)?
Shake them out of your hands, those
drops of borrowed blue electric ink
to make room in the sides of your fingers
for some top-notch scribble sent down
like a message
in a lunchbox on string
you once lowered through a bannister
to rest on the carpet down below
just in case
someone curious walked by.
A beep
A beep from the phone
a text from someone and
why not let it sit? Perhaps it wants to sit.
Maybe it will
ferment or blossom decay
or dissolve
into a small pinch of
dirt in your slacks
given
enough time
a little time
time to rest and
some loving lack
of attention.
Wonderful, powerful
Wonderful, powerful, important words
I found today in Deuteronomy:
“for our lasting good.”
“Our” in this case, a people. Not a person.
“Lasting,” to think past the moment.
Now there — there is a phrase worth diagramming.
Worth pondering, worth knitting, worth chatting about over breakfast.
Worth adding harmonies to. Worth writing down.
Worth being reminded of.
Worth passing along.
Collateral Love
I’m the victim of a collateral love experience.
The love that tears through the space around,
tries to connect and disassemble
people sitting around and
behind me.
I’m caught in the love bomb.
Irradiated.
Stabbed with shards
with melodies
that tear into my shoulder, my
back, my knees. The
walls buckle as the wave bounces.
My wife is there too. At my side.
And she feels it
burst through the room, along
with the singer’s smile.
She feels the love that wasn’t
meant for us
at least not just for us
the love aimed
at the back of the wall.
We collapse into it.
We break together.
As the theater lights
blink on.
Ways I may have changed
It might be that my exterior melted a bit last year
that it’s shinier now, more like fiberglass, which I hadn’t noticed to be honest
until just last week.
That it’s a little more weather resistant, which is nice.
More sun proofed. Akin to the skin
of a sailboat — a sunfish sailboat like the one
my dad wanted to buy when I was a teen, and he was in his forties,
when we took that class about
tying knots.
I used to pride myself on my permeable skin.
I would chat with you
we would chat about this or that, and through our chat
I would find myself replenished.
My roots. My happy roots.
But now things bead up on me sometimes.
I look down at my legs, at my hands and I see water beads
I shake off those beads and I think
this is a way that I may have changed
a bit last year.
Ocean ready I am.
But covered in beads.
I made eggs yesterday and learned a lesson.
I like to make fried eggs — I like the experience, putting a little chilli on them, putting the cover on to cook them top down. I like flipping them and I like not flipping them. I find the whole thing much more pleasing than scrambling eggs, but don’t get me wrong. I also like scrambling eggs.
Anyways on this particular day — let’s call it “yesterday” — I cracked my first egg perfectly and put it in a small bowl. The idea was to keep it separate from the second egg in case catastrophe struck and I broke the yolk. Safety first, right?
I cracked the second egg in its own bowl, and — yoinks! Broken yolk. Sad but resilient, I tossed the second egg, and cracked the third, and double-yoinks on the third egg! I tossed the third. I cracked the fourth, and again, there was something off in my technique. Too much vigor? Ruined! Tossed!
And here, the twist: I reached into the fridge to get more eggs, to complete my perfect pair-of-soon-to-be fried eggs. And yet. And yet.
There were no more eggs.
Left with just one egg now — well who wants just one fried egg? Perhaps you do, and if so, I wish I had made you one. But not me. I’m all about two eggs. So I tossed my one good egg.
And here’s the lesson learned: Had I not tossed the second — perhaps just made a scramble, I would have had a lovely egg snack. Had I checked the fridge before tossing the second, and third, and yes fourth, I would have had a lovely egg snack.
But I had no lovely egg snack. Only two bowls to clean. And a banana, slightly bruised.