Ten-Finger Exercises

Monday rumblings

Polly was very stressed last week, it turns out, because she'd had a bad report from her doctor: high blood pressure, high blood sugar, two new medicines and a request for a cardio (which she refuses to do.) She seemed so defeated by the idea of controlling her diet, saying that oh dear she probably had some cottage cheese around. I know she doesn't like to cook all that well, or to plan, prefers to indulge in snacks she thinks are good for her because of her diabetes. I doubt if cookies, crackers and candy are good for her. Anyway, I wanted to help her. I suggested shopping with her for a stock of Lean Cuisines or Healthy Choice meals, and, knowing she does not have a microwave, offered to get one for her with the help of a recent very generous donation to my discretionary fund. She rejected me in a supersweet voice, saying she had a microwave somewhere in the basement (no doubt broken) and that her toaster oven would work if she decided to buy a few meals. I warned her to read the package, that sometimes they aren't designed for toaster ovens. I think she was insulted. I know she gets offended easily, but still.... She's told me she can't afford her medicines, and I'd help with those too. Pride. Too bad.

This week she was all smiles and positive words for a fellow poet but wouldn't meet my eye. Okay. I didn't care. She seemed better by the end of the workshop, even saying something positive about my poem along with the fact that she did not like it.

Outlook Gloomy

The New Year comes decked in the guise
of smiling baby waiting in all innocence,
its diaper clean, unlike the world
that sadly needs a change.
I wait in fear. Strawberry Alarm Clock,
Curious Yellow and Clockwork Orange
are in the bar together and have had
too much to drink.

All our land’s divided. No one says we see
in only black and white for fear it would be racist.
No. We see in bankers, union activists,
religious zealots, cheats and takers, gun owners
and CEOs, all afraid of something. Take your pick.
Line up against the ones you choose to blame,
the ones you fear the most.

Retired but unretreaded I retreat
from slippery spaces armed with neither
rhyme nor measured meter,
wishing to surround myself with
auras of obscurity enough to make
a point without offense, but maybe
this is not the medium or day for that.


Now, for all that, I'm really not feeling so pessimistic, except when Chicken Little is running around the house.