The big yellow slide

I was right behind her, and she waited

for me at the bottom, her arms open and

welcoming.

Mimi! She cried, and I will never forget

that energy, that way of being in the world,

the world of the big yellow slide, the one that

seemed so frightening and high

so recently.

every day she climbs a bit higher as does

my confidence in her.

I am right behind her, watching her and

learning from her, 

who says that the young must learn 

from the old.

Cali, the Leader of the Pack

when there is sorrow or grief,

apathy or, you just can't get off the couch,

the Leader of the Pack will guide you 

towards beauty, a natural bounty, the last

rays of sun reflecting off towering rock.

The Leader of the Pack will bound ahead of you,

looking back occasionally, tail wagging, 

veering offtrack towards interesting smells,

providing that example of looking far afield

when there is sorrow or grief, when one can only

look one direction, or the head hangs low,

the Leader of the Pack teaches us 

another way.

She said I could do whatever I want

 She asked why I don't go to a good university,

like MIT or Harvard, as if it were easy, as if I had 

even one penny to put towards my expenses.

I knew that she would not offer a single nickel,

this woman who pursued her own studies using child support,

at night, while we heated meatloaf in the oven and put 

ourselves to bed.

This woman said that I could do whatever I want,

somehow, she did not concern herself with how.

Three

In the palm of my hand

 

 

In the palm of my hand rests this book

Calling, whispering, I feel the rough cover on my hand

and I open it

For inspiration.

They say that the lines in my hand portend a long life,

the many offshoots pointing in disparate directions;

a doctorate, two children, three husbands and 

so much more, too many to count and so I sit here

with so many options that I sit paralyzed in my old age

how can I pick one, or two, or three

in these final days?

The Writers

Bob and Ariel, Kelly and David

Dylan and Daniel, and me,

The Writers, the Ones who dare to put pen to paper

(a fountain pen is best)

the Ones who dare to show themselves

(even if the microphone does not work)

(we know that writers are often not tech-savvy)

I do not know them, but, in time, they will become

Friends and we will grow grey together

(some of us are already there)

and the lines which stream from our souls

will overlap and entangle themselves

until Ones have become Ours. 

The New Sofa

Not quite as comfortable as the last sofa.  

I have changed, too, not quite as soft as the last couch

which shed the dandruff of flaking faux leather.

Bones protrude and joints creak.

The dog is still there, black, invisible except for the 

devil ears which cast a shadow.

I noticed that half of the floor was worn by

years of shuffling of small feet, the other half

shiny, protected by the old sofa that cradled

us as we traveled this road called life.