Okay, let’s get some things straight once and for all. I don’t live in a shoe. It’s a work of modern architecture, a quite normal if unusual looking home,, and if you imagine it shoe-like, so be it. I’m not old, I’m 45, but with eight kids I am prematurely gray. It wasn’t broth I fed them that night, it was a rich Pottage. And no there wasn’t any bread, six of them are celiac intolerant. And I’d hardly call a pat on the back reminding them of bedtime a serious whipping.
I avoid telling people that I
am going blind in my right eye
for they always seem surprised
as if it should look different
or worse, they say “but it might
not happen,” when I know
the only way that is true
his if I die sooner, not something
I want and if I told them that
would be something for which they
would fumble furiously to apologize.
And, they would add, “but at least
you have your left eye,” which is true
but it’s also a crapshoot, since
it’s 50-50 the left will join
the right within seven or so years.
So I generally stay silent and just
complain about my back, which
is something that they can relate to.
Mother made a point of reminding
me to polish my shoes, she said
untidy shoes are the mark
of a poor man, one to be avoided.
I noticed she never wore shoes
that needed polish, never had wax
and brush in hand, and when her shoes
showed wear they were replaced.
I learned early not to talk back
to her, the penalty too stiff so I
never asked why any reasonable
person would be staring at my shoes.
It is highly likely
that I snored most
of last night, I cannot
be certain but my wife
says I did and she
is rarely wrong
about such things.
I would like
to blame it
on my back, discs
bulging where they
ought not, titanium
rods claiming they
hold the whole thing
together, but I
cannot be certain
of that either once
I slip into sleep.
I am tempted
to stay up all night
and see if I snore,
if the rods move,
but I know if I did
I‘d fall asleep
in the morning
and my snoring
and rods would again
be up to their tricks.
I never imagined that
the search would take so long
or be so difficult.
I never imagined
I had set off seeking
the Holy Grail.
It once was easy
I recalled, little searching
and plentiful enough.
Now, hours spent
actually wasted, I conceded
that it was futile
and went back deep
into time to bring forth
what I never imagined
would be so hard
to find, a good, intelligent
romantic comedy.
There are nights
when the song
of a single cricket
can pull you away from sleep.
She says that she has heard
that not all Angels have wings
and neither of them
is sure how you would know
if you met a bodhisattva.
He searches the mail
every day, for a letter
from unknown birth parents
but none of the credit cards
he ought to carry
offers to rebate his dreams.
Each night they lie
back pressed to back
and slip into dreams.
She records hers
in the journal she keeps
with the pen, by the bed.
He struggles to recall his
and places what shards he can
in the burlap sack
of his memory.
First Published in Where Beach Meets Ocean, The Block Island Poetry Project, 2013
“As you get older,” he said,
“the body grows remarkably
adept at telling you when
you have done too much,
or done something you shouldn’t.”
What he didn’t say, the critical
piece of advice I wish I heard,
is that the body only speaks
well after the fact, a lecture
surely, but never a warning.
No one wants to go a step
short, to miss whatever mark
someone randomly established,
but the price of a step too far
is high and often long lasting.
My back sat me down this
morning , and with that smirk
told me the lifting yesterday
could be paid for over a week,
and my arthritic knees nodded.
My back bemoans its age,
knowing the alternative
is far worse, and as
we limp along, we await
the call to attend
the unveiling of the resonance
images which draw us in
and will, in short order
explain everything
if, even, there is no answer
no underlying truth
and certain it will not find
the simple alignment
that eludes us and
we will continue to share
our abiding pain.
Time has no role to play in any of this.
Time isn’t pleased by the prospect,
it prefers to be ever present, ever
escaping, even as it is arriving.
It is quirky that way.
It is constant yet it loves
to give the impression of being variable.
Einstein noted this, and anyone
returning from a long drive is
aware the return is always the shorter trip.
Unless, of course, you suffer
from a bad back, then time
really has the last laugh.
the dangling green orbs
hang beneath the verdant leaves
dreaming of summer.
sweat rolls down my back
the noon sun stares angrily
forgotten winter
evening sky darkens
is it the approach of night
or simple summer rain?
an old writer and his words 