Picking up the pieces
strown items on the floor
from a basket hurled in solitary anger
where did this come from?
pent up frustration about this stage of life
everyone’s therapist
where’s mine?
he was a baby cooing
gazing into my eyes
a boy playing trains and Legos
look mom!
a teenager on the cusp of manhood
finding his way
now I am the baby
mewing for attention.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
The teenagers are here.
Our house was always the one the kids came to. How many breakfasts of waffles did I make? How many trips to the park did we take? How many Nerf wars battled in these rooms and outside the pale, wooden perimeter? Years and years later, I still find those blue, spongy bullets tucked in corners and hiding among domestic tumbleweeds.
The sleepovers and and get-togethers are less frequent in these late teenage years, but they do happen. Last night my son had friends over. They whooped over video games and a backyard fire pit. This morning they drove themselves to get donuts and we shared laughs in my small, crowded kitchen. I love being a part of their conversations, which normally include musical interests and the mundaneness of high school. I also know to slink away to give them space, as much as is possible in a modest, one-level condo.
But I love the closeness. I wouldn’t have it any other way. There are too many distractions for us to not enjoy the closeness. Everyday I go out on my lanai to watch birds. He doesn’t join me in this. It’s not his thing. But he invites me to walk dogs with him on occasion. We snicker about interesting neighbors. Sometimes we don’t say anything at all.
It’s not easy to catch time with him. If I have just five minutes I am grateful. But there’s never really enough time. I love his company so damn much.
Filed under Observations
On a hill just beyond the view of the Gulf
a seaside town with freshly repaired sidewalks
and paved, perpendicular streets
welcomes a walk at dusk.
The tops of the palms and oak gather darkness
as the backdrop of sunfall illuminates the cirrus clouds
and horizon of slated rooftops.
There is no hurry to run, but rather an urge for a strong-gaited walk
for energetic muscle and new shoes.
A whiff of cigarette smoke permeates from an open garage,
a front door is slowly opened,
potted plants, white gravel, and vine-encased trees
rest on manicured and unruly lawns.
Sprinklers of reclaimed water spray on some dewy earth;
other patches are dry as decayed bone.
The quiet of Sunday plays peacefully
with absence from blaring sirens and piercing landscape machines.
I bury my face in the descending sun as I wander the footpath at dusk,
in suburbia.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
Busted Flip Flops 