So what the fuck has kept me alive these 72 years?
well, almost 72, come Gemini time
My husband? the one who anchors? makes us eat
makes me love him even if our love is like a staring match
Hah! gothcha—you blinked—so one of us has to put out
something—a meal, some food from god knows where,
old song lyrics, the silence we both understand
We can hear
each other’s thoughts, after 37 years, hyphenated by the
time we married other folks,
avoiding the imperfection of us, but damn.
The heat melts then comes in warm wind
every now and then
like a blue moon
like Haley’s Comet—
Sheer obedience to the inner guru
keeps us glueing ourselves
so far, set up and vice gripped into integrity.
Tony Mares told me, too, to keep on writing.
I write to amuse myself, and others.
He works to amuse me and himself.
We’re a silly, quiet pair of gloves.
The kids show up to remind us of
the work we did to feed and clothe,
educate, play and entertain. It was grand.
What is it now about my body slowing?
Nature has invaded my drive
and I tread water in place,
waiting to be useful. Finish a poem.
Read others’ work. Check the weather.
Visit the less fortunate trapped
in hideous, inhumane facilities
and a half-way house.
What the fuck is a half-way house?
It’s either a house or it isn’t.
That one isn’t. It’s jail, no bail, no bond.
Opining lets me know I have time to sew—
a pretty thing for one of the girls.
We bought the fabric long ago. I will start that
goddess-willing, on the morrow.