Two streets over, an elderly couple live in a dark house, swallowed by white wrought iron, ivy, and lawn ornamentation. Yesterday I saw them take advantage of the warm weather by coming outside. The wife, much sturdier than her pyjamma-clad husband, sprung open a lawn chair and parked him in it, then proceeded to vacuum leaves and other detritus from their latticed gazebo.
Is there any way of knowing, statistically, how many more old ladies than old men are taking care of their spouses? I put my money on many, many more old women doing what that old woman was doing.
Interesting, also, was how absorbed both of them were in the work--this same man who, a few years ago, offered to hose me down while I jogged on a hot day!
It reminds me of a poem I wrote a few years ago about another, more independent pair:
Old Couple, Out Of Doors
The pulse of the sun is theirs
to glare at interlopers
pushing strollers,
kids who trespass
their bermuda grass,
free to shoot black birds
because the plumage is ugly
or fatten a pekingnese
tormenting squirrels
their pleasure
to hang on
until dark,
not owning the light.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Why?
Because I enjoy writing, particularly letters and, sometimes, poems.
Because I am too much alone, or at least, too much in isolation.
Because I need conversation.
Because this could be a useful means of staying in touch with lots of people I already know, and connecting with many more I've yet to meet...
(Of course, most writing is by its very nature self-indulgent and narcissistic. I'm mentioning that because I plan on putting up some of my own poems here, in the hopes of entertaining readers and eliciting comment, as well. Entonces, nos vemos!)
Clever Crow
In the doctor's parking lot
you wonder what we've eaten
to see us go in and out,
arranging ourselves briskly:
flesh we are afraid of.
Ulcerated, inoperable.
Lump. Bruise. Scar.
Its abundance scares us
enough to stare
at office art, blandly hung
opposite a fat brunette,
her skirt too short for so much
darkness and warmth
flashing
while you wait for a car,
another beak tearing open
the next meal.
(Scavenger, do not laugh at me.)
Because I am too much alone, or at least, too much in isolation.
Because I need conversation.
Because this could be a useful means of staying in touch with lots of people I already know, and connecting with many more I've yet to meet...
(Of course, most writing is by its very nature self-indulgent and narcissistic. I'm mentioning that because I plan on putting up some of my own poems here, in the hopes of entertaining readers and eliciting comment, as well. Entonces, nos vemos!)
Clever Crow
In the doctor's parking lot
you wonder what we've eaten
to see us go in and out,
arranging ourselves briskly:
flesh we are afraid of.
Ulcerated, inoperable.
Lump. Bruise. Scar.
Its abundance scares us
enough to stare
at office art, blandly hung
opposite a fat brunette,
her skirt too short for so much
darkness and warmth
flashing
while you wait for a car,
another beak tearing open
the next meal.
(Scavenger, do not laugh at me.)
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