Every Moment
The languor, the drive, the traffic, the parking,
the walking blocks to public beach access,
down past an atilt row of porta-potties,
dirt scruff shifting to sand under our feet;
the settling our stuff away from the water
to face the volleyballers, the being unable
to coax our puppy to nose at the tide,
the lounging until we get up and shake out
the sand, pack up, retrace our steps to the car;
the cars-at-a-crawl all the two-lane back,
the making a left across traffic to park, locking
the trunk, my purse, the keys, in it, miserable
at what I’d done, at everything, wanting
a fight, wanting, but unable, to curb myself.
My Animus Prods Me
When I wouldn’t speak
for myself, he spoke
but did he say anything like
what I wanted said?
Of course not.
I wanted nothing said
and spread out deck after
cyberspace deck, as if
with all the time
in the multiverse to ponder
who of the stratostars
abandoned whom
and what that j.peg’s
no-good robo-soul
of a boyfriend is up to
and why in light years . . .
He said: Your voice, your thumbprint.
Not a Clue
I’ve years of clues, and no clue
about the seductive voice in her head
telling her what, what not, to do.
Whether or not it’s true,
she said that voice was shed.
I’ve years of clues, and no clue—
still flinch at my every snafu.
Each up and down induces dread,
telling us what, what not, to do
ad infinitum. If only I knew
how not to try to pry her out of bed.
I’ve years of clues, and no clue.
Things revert to normal, as if on cue.
It know I’ve been misguided,
telling her what, what not, to do,
yet zoned-out on our bedspread
feel the nausea of it anew:
I’ve years of clues, and no clue
what, what not, to do.
- Three Poems - January 17, 2021
