Reading the good poetry, the published stuff

I didn't understand how one word connected to the other
or how each sentence related to the next
but this was a good poem, published by a beautiful woman
with a degree in Writing, smart, ...artistic
I'm dumb.
I didn't have the education, the refinement,
the culture.
I just write about "stuff", like washing dishes
and birthdays
the stuff people live
It works for me

Dieting is hard

He said I was fat, dear brother.
He said I had gained weight, dear friend.
I knew it was true as my T-shirt bulged out
unmistakably....
Saying it was age wasn't cutting it
my brother looked nausatingly slim
chocolate covered almonds
avocados
ice cream
cookies
all have calories regardless of
COVID-19
so I keep track and I count
dieting is hard.

The COVID test

the nurses are on the 5th floor of the parking garage
lined up at a 6' folding table, in blue.
the garage is empty except for a few cars clustered
around the elevators.
I had to drive my car and
approach with the windows closed.
Special attention, no one else is there.
One nurse to give me instructions,
while the other prepares the swabs
and I try to pretent not to notice that they
are much longer than what I believe to be
my tender nasal passages.
I'll spare you the details except to
note that the instructions nurse was there
to provide moral support during the procedure.
I'll wait for the results.

Walking through strange neighborhoods

are they strange
or just unknown, unexplored -
As soon as I cross Canyon, now quiet
carless, then stroll north through neighborhoods
that I already know, past the hospital, then
I can become lost as I look in others people's
gardens at flowers I don't recognize
up there, they have driveways.
but there are still no cars in the street
I won't recognize anyone, nor will they recognize me
my flowered mask will shroud me in mystery.
it's far, though, by foot, to reach the
unknown territories of my town
so I sit here on the back porch
and consider
without
moving

why am I not posting pictures on the blog

the question of the day
for me is why don't I post pictures anymore with my poems
how lazy
its true I am slogging through the days which blend one
into another
i have come to recognize the stains on the kitchen floor
and I have named each of the geraniums
I'm too lazy to look for a photo
to match a hastily written poem before
I slink off to bed
knowing I'll be up at 11 and 1 and 3 and 5.
I'm too tired thinking of it to look for a photo
so that is why
I don't post pictures anymore
I'm too tired.

Documentary

I'll document this day with notes,
yellow, pink and green.
a temperature of 99.1F, belief in one thermometer.
brilliant sun and glistening grass
practicing harmonica while walking Bella.
I'm tired
regretting a week without flute,
slim progress in Wolof mais au moins,
je n'ai pas fait une nuite blanche.
it's early yet,
I'll look at the mushrooms along the fence line
and eat lunch on the front porch
my seedlings will get some sun
waiting to be planted
and finally, I will try not to eat too
many cookies or too large a piece of cake
I stepped on the scale this morning,
it was not a pretty sight.

Celebrating a birthday during Coronavirus lockdown

a quiet house.
the birthday boy snuck off for a bike ride
with a friend (the one grounded by his wife)
to ride more than 10 miles from home.
me, I gardened with the house cleaner who sneezed
(me wondering if it was allergies or cocaine)
a few minutes studying the orbital debris environment
and a nap
I didn't write a card or buy a present
he doesn't care about that.
it's quiet, no friends at the house,
only a black dog on the couch
her head on my lap,
we toasted to his birthday
home-made cocktails, clink clink.