Sunday. Isn’t that supposed to be a day of rest? Apparently not for a Jewish-Taoist because I was running most of the day. For good purpose. My late afternoon QiGong class was attended by lovely people who needed the unwinding at the end of the day: a woman who works with dementia patients; another who is caregiver to a dying husband. So, I return fulfilled but with no time to write. At least not a full poem. So instead, I give you a fragment, a beginning of a poem that I hope to continue later.
Awake, shutter slats become a counting game;
A shadowbox of light now frames
Silhouettes of clutter on a dresser top:
Isis statue, cufflink, single sock.
That’s all folks. Rough draft of a partial poem. Second line is not what I wrote in my head last night while awake so I’ll have to try to dredge the better line back out.
As a sop bonus, the beginning of “The Ballad of Me and Mike”
It was quiet in the coffeeshop when the man came in the door:
Unimpressive figure with his eyes fixed on the floor.
Mike and I were transfixed by a Vogue ad Laboutine.
“If he could just be shot,” Mike frowned, “I think it would be grand.”
“I doubt such luck for fashion.” Said I, turning to page four.