A Perfect House this is…

It’s hard to imagine one more perfectly perfect
in every imaginable, house-like way,
neatly groomed all around, trees sufficiently matured
framing the stately gray-tones of paint-swatch variety,
picture-book beauty, garage and fence to match,
patio just visible achieving inviting serenity
where you just know you’d linger meaningfully,
an oasis to rival all pretenders,
this is what realtors call curb-appeal and
you know it when you see it they say,
it all fits, it all is just right outside it seems,
but there’s a drape askew in one window
as if resting unfortunately on the couch back
just enough to introduce disquieting dissonance
hinting at a hurried life inside hiding so much
that all is not as perfectly perfect as imagined
in this house someone must call a home.

Advertisements

The Fork

Tucked in the drawer crammed with a potato peeler,
can opener with that spot of insistent rust I rub away,
three different thermometers that I can’t remember
ever using, and so many oddly shaped and hardly used
utensils that only but don’t really fit here is the fork;
it’s heavy and strong enough to lift a bowling ball
or a roast or whole turkey if I were strong enough to
lift such things, and it’s used just once or twice a year
when all my kids somehow wander back home for
Thanksgiving or Christmas (but not both these days);
but this isn’t November or December, the can opener
has a replacement but sits here as a backup just in case
and, no, I won’t throw it away even though it rusts
because we’ll all be thankful when it’s needed and
the kids come home and I get to use the fork again.

Learning how to handle this time thing…

Everyone needs time that’s
quiet to think or not,
just time without, not
simply unconnected, not
simply quiet, but time enough;
I’ve seen it done and done
well; my Dad would stand on
the front steps in almost any
weather at the end of each day
and do nothing – not sit
or shuffle or hum or sing;
it was his time enough;
when I’d open the door
he wouldn’t react, he
would still have his time
enough; and I could stay
with him as long as
I said nothing, did nothing;
never, not once, was I
asked by Mom to go get
Daddy, ask Daddy, tell him
a single, solitary thing
while he was on the front
steps; it was his time, and
I learned this is how the
time thing works: you just go
stand somewhere and do
nothing but that, without
trying even, and especially,
if I don’t seem to have time
enough, and I my only fight
is to wonder if I’m doing it right
or not.