Modeling Molecules

they creep out from behind their covalently bonded brethren,
skinny and breathless, and skip up towards vacuum, pausing for a
moment only to make a quick move so as to escape detection.
a ping and they're gone into the depths of space and I missed them,
looking behind a large mirrored surface to see if they were still there.
they only partially follow their equations, and only when they want;
if it's raining in Houston and an anomymous man in Mission Control
reaches into his desk drawer for a certain fountain pen, they seem to take
that as license to slither on out and disappear,
oh molecules, so difficult to model.

Overbooked

every day it's another thing, a commitment,  five
minutes here, another ten there, a couple minutes, an
hour, a few seconds, a recipe, a meeting, a flute lesson,
a recital, dead lifts.
my brain wants to stop, my body wants to lie down,
I want the clock to stop and for no wonderful opportunities
to come my way, no new friends, no time for
learning, no new languages, nothing, not
another chance to meditate or improve my life,
I'll pass on intimate conversation, an empty suitcase,
no time for a daughter or son, plans for celebrations,
just emptiness, boredom would be welcome,
I'm overbooked on life, such a wonderful life
it is, but overbooked.

28

twenty eight;
a baby boy in my arms, a degree in hand,
twenty eight;
and he'll have a degree in his hand, a sweetheart by his side.
we repeat, only better, my mother had her degree in her hands
at thirty nine, we move faster in this new generation, and our faces
show the fatigue, he looked so tired tonight.
we all finished our chocolate cake and drifted off our chairs
towards bed,
28, a good year to have done so much,
56, double the fun.

oh no!

oh no!
the crunching of a rat's teeth on some
thing
next to the bed
oh no!
please tell me it ain't so
oh no, how many tons of concrete,
so many dollars, to many hours to seal
our house against wood rats and oh no!
we so don't need to wake up
to the gnawing of teeth
at night,
oh no!

Home Sweet Home

regardless of
breathtaking cliffs of sandstone
the rush of rivers, stars that startle in their beauty in the night sky,
there is no place like home,
no bed like the one in the small room downstairs
where we lay next to each other,
one body warming the other, linked hands
and hearts, a shared meal at a pink dinette,
there is no place like home.

Weathered

I see weathered in the mirror,
the purple Adirondack chairs are peeling after a single winter,
my face has endured so much more.
I'm disappointed in the paint job
but there is no doubt that my face is alos
showing its own version of peeling.
In the happiness survey, I mark my appearance
half way between attractive and ugly, I used to place
more to the right, not sliding left every year,
age does not typically add to beauty.
A weathered fence in Wyoming is shiny
and silver; I note how smooth as I lean against
her watching the horses running on the other side of the field.
their tails glisten in the wind and sun.

schroedinger's cat

in the end, the explanations of a
Nobel Laureate or not, Schrodinger's cat was
dozing in that in-between state of wakefulness and sleep,
warm  next to us on an adjacent Macky Auditorium chair.
We were all in that in-between state between complete
mystification and some firing synapses pondering whether
motion states resemble phonons or whether we
could possibly sneak out quietly to our beds,
known factually to offer warmth and comfort
after a long day of writing and thinking,
we are keen to let each spring
caress our weary backs.