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I heart you

All the good ones are taken
(yes, I know it’s a lie)
All the good ones are taken
(but I no longer try)
All the good ones are taken
(I say to myself)
All the good ones are taken
(my heart’s safe on the shelf)
All the good ones are taken
(for a mantra it’s fine)
All the good ones are taken
(keeps my yearning in line)
All the good ones are taken
(I say with a sigh)
All the good ones are taken
(yes, I know it’s a lie)

The quiet at the end of the day

The racing mind
the anxious heart
the beetled brow
all give way
to the quiet at the end of the day

all worries still
swift pulse relents
a cleansing sigh
to clear the way
for the quiet at the end of the day

no better balm
no greater calm
no sweeter freedom
from mental fray
than the quiet at the end of the day

crimson, ink, chocolate

brush in deep
red acrylic paint,
no, better, oil,
a natural substance,
then, slapping the canvas,
marking, defacing, violent.

light strokes and dark,
ink in a pen,
no, better, a well,
the nib dipping and rising
then, pen touching paper,
delicate, quick, deft.

heating sugar, butter, cacao,
on an electric,
no, a gas stove, a flame
growing and dancing,
it licks the pot's copper edges,
sluicing, tempering, sweet
brittle stuff. he
and she. they jostle
one another, laugh now
and then, don't talk
about their work.

breathe in deep,
smile, sigh. here,
they meet.

practice

my husband can be found
of an evening, these days
playing the harmonica
for an hour or so.
tonight he said "I've decided
I will play every night. For practice."
such a thing
has never occurred before in our house:
the practicing of an instrument
every day.
it's something I used to do
when I was a teenager,
sitting down at the piano
every after-school afternoon.
it was joy, independence,
freedom. mine alone.
the piano.

now, in our home,
we have a keyboard
but I rarely use it.
I still like playing
but the joy has given way
to a kind of bewilderment,
because I don't know where
the passion to play went.
I fantasize sometimes
that we will make room
for a real, upright piano,
wooden, with tall keys that travel
and feel like real piano keys
because they are.

yet also when I was a teenager
I used to write poems
on a long sheet of paper
in a spiral notebook
with a pen,
and that was joy;
now I write poems
on an electronic keyboard
and that is joy, too.
but the daily habit
was long gone.
now you can find me
of an evening, these days
writing poems.
for practice.
for the joy of it.

Marshall McLuhan must have had a cat

The cat questions me
With the persistance of a three year old.
And if it were not 4:30 in the morning,
And if he weren't standing with all his weight
on my ribcage,
And if this were not a daily routine for him,
I'd be happy to answer him.
Though the answers would mean as little to him
As his questions do to me.

I do answer him,
He doesn't seem to mind if I merely
grumble with eyes closed
Or swear and shove him off the bed
He just wants to engage me in the back and forth
of meaningless conversation
Every morning for the rest of his long life.

He has taught me this though,
Through the years of unintelligible noises
His and mine,
It's not the content of the conversation
That has meaning.

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